Sometimes I have bad days.
Sometimes I have bad weeks, sometimes bad months. Sometimes it lasts longer. I don’t question it any more, nor do I wish it didn’t happen. I can trace the first time I felt like this back to when I was twelve years old. My mother died when I was an infant, and my father remarried. I was too young to have any memory of my mother, and believed my father’s second wife to be my mother. One day when I was twelve she disappeared. She left one day while I was at school. She left without a word. I lay in the bathtub for hours trying to work out why she did that.
I have been told by many doctors that I have severe depression, but being told that doesn’t really mean that much. When it is something that becomes a staple part of your existence…
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