This is difficult to write
I’ve had a tough few years…relationship break ups, international moves, disrupted business, the culmination of which landed me with depression for the second time in my life. A therapist once told me (in my first battle with this illness) that I was a high functioning depressive – because I could get up, get dressed, work, and appear to all intents and purposes like I was ‘normal’ (whatever that is). Certainly, I gave the impression of coping. Then, as now, though I have had an internal battle with why I should even bother to remain ‘here’ – on earth, alive…
It was a lie…
I was lucky growing up! I was taught from an early age that everyone matters. There was no prejudice in my home. We had friends visit and music played by people from all walks of life. This was in the 60s, 70s and early 80s.
In the mid 70s I started secondary school. I went to a south east London comprehensive that had a fifty-fifty black/white mix of kids. I was surrounded by, and part of, a rich cultural heritage. I came to believe that this was a ‘normal’ representation of how life would be … I was wrong!
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