Like a flat mate who doesn’t do the dishes, living with depression isn’t bad all of the time, but just when you’re beginning to relax, to almost forget, you’ll come home to a mountain of resiliently greasy, baked on washing up. That’s what depression is to me, the jerk that still manages to surprise me in the most disappointing, disheartening way, even after 25 years of intimate cohabitation.
Posted on: Sat, 27 Sep 2014 07:00:01 +0000