Success story: One step at a time

Fearful of being labeled a failure, high achiever Amy Singer hid her depression for nearly 20 years. Until a chance meeting put her on the road to recovery. This is her story…

The nights are the worst. I wake up three to four hours after falling asleep, often crying, and my mind filled with black thoughts and dread. Mostly about how I don’t want to exist, how life is empty and meaningless and how alone I am. And at that hour, I am. There is no-one with whom I can share my despair. And so I lie there, immobile. Night after night. Week after week. Time ticks on, slowly, with the same thoughts spiralling around my head. There is no space for rational thought.

Ending it all is a repetitive theme. If I’m lucky I sleep again at about 5am… Exhausted. And then it is always a deep sleep. So when the alarm goes off, I am in a fog. It is only rote behaviour that gets
me out of bed and to the office — at least on the good days.

Often, I cannot face people — particularly those who will see through my fragile defences, and then the habit of getting out of bed fails. All I want is to be alone, in the dark. Yet I also want someone to help me.

When first diagnosed with major depression, I was 25 and working in the media industry. My dark clothes, relatively uncombed appearance and negative outlook were not really at odds with the culture of the newsroom.

But the lethargy that goes with a serious depressive episode is all powerful and cannot easily be hidden. It consumes your mind, body, soul and upsets your general rhythm. You could see it in my defeated posture, hear it in my tired voice, and spot the dark rings under my eyes. I believed my failings and weaknesses were visible to everyone — which were not congruent with the high achiever I was. So I became quieter and quieter, believing everyone was out to trip me up. If I did not engage, I would not risk the tears which punctuated any conversation about my welfare.

Caffeine, sugar, chocolates and alcohol provided a quick energy boost and temporary respite, particularly at work. But of course, the downside was harsh. The weight gain, for example, exacerbated my bad self-image.

One night at a very low point of this cycle, I reached for a kitchen knife and tried to cut my wrists. Fortunately the knife was blunt and I did not inflict significant wounds. But in the light of day my behaviour shocked me into going to see my GP. He prescribed an anti-depressant and sleeping tablets, booked me off work and convinced me to go away on a restful recovery holiday where I could swim in warm water and feel the sun on my skin.

Thereafter began a process of therapy…READ ON

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