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Monday 5 December 2016

In which I tell the whole truth about what really happened last week

Gemma Fullam

Published 23/11/2015 | 02:30

No slacking:Gemma Fullam.. Photo: Gerry Mooney
No slacking:Gemma Fullam.. Photo: Gerry Mooney

I have a confession to make: I wasn't entirely honest last week. So the following is in the interests of full disclosure.

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Some backstory: at 16, I had never heard of depression. I thought the profound despair I was feeling was an intrinsic part of my make-up; just as my eyes were blue and my hair was straight, the darkness inside was also me. I felt worthless, ergo I was worthless. I felt wretched, so I was wretchedness personified. Such was my logic. My teenage mind wasn't sophisticated enough to separate the self from the sadness and I didn't confide in anyone, so the depression became my dark secret.

Things imploded when I went to college. People sensed my melancholy and give it a wide berth. At that point in my life, desperately in need of help, I was sent to see a respected medical professional, who told me that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me beyond being a selfish brat.

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