Depression runs in my family. Every woman on my father’s side of the family, for at least four generations, has either been medicated for life or killed herself.
Where my daughters are concerned, we opted for medication once it became apparent they didn’t escape the family genetic curse. (Mind you, my husband’s side has its own little mental health quirks- can you say bipolar?)
I am the pillar of strength for the girls, and I’ve been coping ok, but the last week my black dog has come out to play.
I want to sleep, inhale chocolate, rage against my life and run away. All at the same time.
Luckily, I’m old enough and ugly enough that I can get by.
This too shall pass.
And I’ll be ok.