My name is Gwen Hill, and I suffer from depression and anxiety.
The thing about this blog, of the feels-like-bloody-dozens that I’ve started: It’s got a weird name. The title appears to have nothing to do with the content, because I’m going to talk about depression and coping and such things, and not about the best way to put a french glaze on your ten-dollar-bills. (Which I do not believe you should do. Do not eat money. It is full of germs and, also, MADE OF PAPER AND METAL which are bad for you.)
Glad that’s out of the way.
This is based on one of those pesky morals I’m trying to stick to, which is: Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is. I’ve known and loved people who have struggled with mental illness, and the accompanying guilt and shame and secrecy always left me feeling vaguely unsettled. Our brains are big chemical factories, and while there are certainly people who are just lazy, stupid and needy, that shouldn’t take away from the fact that mental illness is a real problem. There are actual disorders, there is a biology to it, and people who suffer from such illnesses should not need to feel such shame.
That’s been my little puttering philosophy, hanging about in the back of my mind. Never really had to do anything about it because the stories of those I love are not mine to tell, and I didn’t think I had one of my own.
Now I do.
I’m on anti-depressants, I’m in therapy, I’ve told my family and my friends. I’m talking about it. I’m not ashamed of myself; I’m not ashamed of this stupid depression. I am going to kick it, because this person I’ve been – she is not who I am. It’s all a part of me, sure, but it’s not the best part of me, and it’s no way to live a phenomenal life, which I fully plan to do. I think that’s as good of a start as any.