Prozac or prayers?

There is nothing worse when you're depressed than being told to pull yourself together. The illness is all consuming, the black dog, a thick blanket smothering everything, even joy. And it can descend when you're 'supposed' to be happy, like when you've had a new baby, or your life looks rosy every other way.
  Since joining Twitter I've had snippet conversations with interesting, inspiring people who really do have reasons to be down, but are intent on helping others. My story is no way as deep as some, but I still have one and have sympathy with others who have it and are afraid to admit it.
   I think I was prone to depression or at least melancholy even as a child. I can remember the mournful thoughts from earliest memories. I was third of four children, picked on and teased because I was skinny and serious. While my sisters got into trouble of various sorts, I kept my head down, studied, achieved, was head girl, got into Oxford, sang soprano - but somehow it was never quite enough for the family. Or so it seemed.
   I remember some moments  in my first year at Oxford when I sat in my lovely room in Turl Street, listening to voices and footsteps rollicking past, and hiding from the knock on the door. Why? Low grade depression. Pressure of being surrounded by brilliant people. Nearly dropped out, but didn't, and bizarrely, in my third year when I had finals and was dumped by a longterm boyfriend, I was really happy. Why? Because a gorgeous first year made me feel beautiful again. That sounds shallow, but it worked.
  More seriously I became v depressed as a single mum. The usual symptoms (though I didn't know it) of waking early with thumping heart and feeling of dread. My little boy came in wearing his school uniform and said, 'Mummy can you do up my top button?' I stared at him. Couldn't even do his button for him. Realised I needed help, for his sake, as well as mine. Took him to school and went straight to my GP who realised I knew what I was talking about, and prescribed Prozac.
   Some say you can be addicted, but I was only on it for a year. But in that year the sun came out. I likened it to being a boat being pushed gently off the shore into the ocean, calm seas, not storms. I made plans. Sold my house, moved my boy and back to London (see previous blog - it didn't pan out as I planned, but at least I had planned), got in touch with his father and saw them grow close. So much more.
   What I'm saying is recognise it. Tackle it head on, before someone close to you suffers. And don't dismiss medication. It's not for everyone, and some react badly. Don't come off it without guidance. But when it works, boy, for some of us

 it really is the answer.