Wednesday 27 September 2017

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

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

Gemma Fullam

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

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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