“wherever I sat — on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok — I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air”
– Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar 

I’m a twentysomething living in Australia. I graduated high-school in the top-5 of my class and went to university on a scholarship. I enjoy reading, movies, writing, travelling. I play sports with friends in social competitions. I have an amazing partner of three-plus years with whom I’ve travelled the world.  I have graduated university with two hounours degrees. I have an excellent job and basically have my career path mapped out in front of me.

I was also diagnosed with depression about a year ago.

Apparently, I have been living with it all my life.

To be brutally honest, and I must be, because there is no other explaination for the lameness of it all, I only went to see a doctor after reading The Bell Jar and realising there must be something seriously wrong with me if can relate as I did to a book written by a women who killed herself a month after it was published.

I’ve been on medication for the last 12 months; I have been on the correct medication for the last five months.

Twelve months on, I realise that my treatment may be a long one. I have decided to keep a journal about it, and I’m doing it online because, first, I find it easier to type than hand-write, and secondly, I really do want to talk about this.

I’m not going to be doing a “Today I did x” -type diary, although I’m sure I will talk about daily occurrences once in a while, so this blog might not be chronological, nor, I’m sure, sensicle, some of the time.  I was contemplating anonnymity, partly for my sake, but mostly for those around me, but I am torn because I no longer want to be ashamed about being depressed. But I guess I will just cross that  bridge when I get to it.

So. This is my story about living with depression.