epression is like childbirth: until you've lived through it, it's impossible to know what it actually feels like. And it feels rotten. People who are lucky enough never to have experienced depression often think it manifests itself as being sad, or a bit blue. Sadness is a perfectly normal and healthy emotion -- if you were never sad, then how could you ever be happy? Depression goes beyond mere sadness and brings you into a deep, dark place -- one from which you feel there is no escape. It is sadness, anxiety, misery, and, worst of all, the loss of hope -- you feel you are trapped in blackness forever.

I've suffered from two major bouts of depression. The first occurred a decade ago. I was living in New York, I had a great job, an active social life, a good figure and almost as many shoes as Imelda Marcos. None of that mattered, however, because depression is an illness, and not a life choice. Like a purely physical ailment, depression comes from within, and, just like cancer or eczema, you can't merely think it away. But that's exactly what I tried to do -- will it away -- and, because I couldn't do that, I thought I was weak-willed and self-indulgent.

In retrospect, it astonishes me that I ever imagined I could think myself better -- if I broke a leg, I wouldn't for a second try to will the fracture to heal, though, obviously, mental or emotional disorders can be more complex than a physical ailment.

Eventually, I got help from anti-depressants and a therapist, and I got better. Seven years later I gave birth to my son; because of my history, I was 50 per cent more likely to develop post-partum depression but, luckily, the year following his birth was the happiest of my life.

Then, just before my son turned two, depression came roaring back into my life without any prior warning. My life became a Jekyll and Hyde-like existence. During my son's waking hours, I put on a performance worthy of an Oscar. I was happy Mommy: my son was fed, washed and never lacked for attention. Once he went to bed, I shut down -- physically, emotionally and mentally. The phone went unanswered, emails piled up in my inbox and all invitations were declined.

After six months of keeping this facade going I was a complete wreck -- it's hard to describe just how much energy pretending requires. On top of the utter exhaustion and feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness, I was laden down with a near-paralysing guilt that I was failing my small son. At that point, a good friend, who suffers from depression herself, decided to stage an intervention. Realising I didn't have time for months of talk therapy, she booked me into the Hoffman Process -- an intensive, eight-day residential programme.

The Hoffman Process, named after Bob Hoffman, who created it in 1967, is based around the idea that we are all victims of negative love syndrome.

The theory of negative love is that we absorb our parents' and surrogate parents' negative traits and patterns -- either consciously or unconsciously -- in order to gain love and acceptance from them. Every child does this; we all learn how to function in the world by mimicking our parents and, along with all of the positive stuff, we inevitably pick up the negative patterns of those responsible for our upbringing. The process works by helping to identify the negative patterns as well as their source, and then eliminate those patterns and adopt new behaviour. The techniques include physical work, group work, a lot of written work and guided meditation. The aims of the course are to rid yourself of old, negative behaviours, adopt new, positive behaviours and, possibly most importantly, understand that your parents are themselves also victims of negative love syndrome, and not blame them.

There were 24 of us on the course, which took place in East Sussex, England -- there is also a course available in Ireland. We had three teachers, each a Hoffman graduate, and each teacher took responsibility for a group of eight people.

On my first morning, all 24 of us assembled and were invited to share a significant childhood memory. I sobbed as a beautiful young woman I'd never met before described her earliest memory -- her drunken father beating her mother and her pet dog.

After hearing a few equally horrific tales, it was my turn. I honestly thought people would laugh and question why I was there, as I had never suffered from either physical or sexual abuse, had never shared my home with an alcoholic, a bulimic or an uncaring parent. In fact, I had never had any doubts that my mother both loved me and wanted me.

When it was my turn to speak, I was astonished to see some of the other participants moved to tears as I described hearing my father's voice for the first time. I was 11, and he was on the television.

My parents' marriage ended when I was a baby, I had no subsequent contact with my father and, coming from a one-parent family in the early Seventies, I always felt like a bit of an outsider. These feelings were exacerbated when, at the age of five, my mother, my grandmother and I moved to Dublin from Donegal, where my strong accent set me apart from my classmates. As an adult I've always had a near-phobia about commitment, which has been reflected in almost every area of my life, from my relationships to my work.

I can't go into details about what occurred over the eight days, as part of the process is not knowing what is coming next. When I arrived at the course, I was terrified we'd be asked to do really mad stuff like dance naked around a bonfire. There was actually a bonfire, but no nudity. What I can tell you is that it helped. A lot.

Changing negative patterns isn't something that happens overnight -- it takes time and practice, but, after eight days, my depression was gone, and a year on I am better. A better parent, a better child, a better friend. I am not a better person; I was always a good person -- I just needed to be reminded of the fact.

L

The Irish Hoffman Process takes place at Chrysalis, Donard, Co Wicklow, and costs €2,900, which includes 7 nights accomodation, meals and the Hofmann Process itself, tel: (045) 404-713, or see www.chrysalis.ie

- Anne Marie Scanlon

Sunday Independent