When I was seven, after my little sister became seriously disabled by German measles, after my father stopped talking to me, and after my mother became chronically angry, punitive and neglectful, I started to wake up at 5am and think about death. I'd slip into the bathroom, sit on the floor and cry and beg God to let me live a little longer; I was convinced that I had cancer, a disease considered so disgusting, so shameful in 1950 that it was referred to as C, suitable punishment for someone as wicked as myself, whose family appeared to hate her, who hated herself.

My fingertips were bloody from picking and biting them and I became very quiet, never arguing or complaining. My face grew thin and pale, with the hangdog look of a neglected child, without the sparkle or energy. In private, I cried and ached endlessly. In public, I smiled pretending to be the happy, perfect child my parents wanted.

By the age of 13, I was exhibiting clear but unremarked upon symptoms of clinical depression: insomnia, nightmares, early waking, chronic tiredness, lack of social enjoyment, low self-esteem coupled with a chronic sense of wrongness. I never, under any circumstances became angry or rebellious. Like so many depressives, such as Winston Churchill, Claire Rayner and Mike Yarwood, I could hide my problems in public, keeping the darkness inside me.

It's very easy to repeat childhood patterns throughout life, finding new partners to replay, over and over again the dysfunctional drama that once allowed us to survive adverse conditions. I was an underachiever at school and wrecked a potential career as an actress and teacher with paranoia and lack of confidence.

I married a man, remarkably like my father: a man later diagnosed as manic depressive. When he left me, I found a second charming, intelligent husband who, I later discovered, had a private, hostile agenda towards women.

In 1970, after a multiple fracture of my left leg, my doctor prescribed valium, sleeping pills and painkillers. I remember the pleasure, the ease of being completely relaxed for the first time in my life as the drugs buried a rats nest of emotion - anxiety, rage, hatred - deep inside me. Was it a bad marriage, a bad life? I could handle it... if I just kept taking the pills and more pills and booze and food and cigarettes.

But the pretence fell apart in 1982. After a breakdown featuring catatonic spells of withdrawal, and crying fits that went on for days, I had a year of therapy and moved out of the marital home; my children had written me off. It took five years to get off the drugs; during withdrawal, I discovered how deeply depressed I was. Most nights, I'd wake up after after a brief sleep with spells of fierce agitation or panic attacks so painful that I plotted suicide, just to end the agony, alternating with periods of endless despair, exhaustion, feeling as if I wore a lead diving suit, hopeless and helpless. My GP offered me antidepressants but one trip to pharmaceutical heaven had been enough; I found an excellent counsellor, got interested in alternative medicine, meditation, self development, took yoga courses, studied nutrition and began to change who and what I was, to discover the person hidden under my protective facade.

By 1987 I was drug free and started writing as therapy for the powerful emotions that drug withdrawal unleashed and in 1989, sold a cookery article to The Guardian. My confidence grew and I branched out into teaching, film making, TV, radio, all sorts of writing. I quit smoking, cut down on alcohol and made plans to live happily ever after.

Success brings its own pressures and I wasn't strong or wise enough to handle them well. My husband and I got into an ugly court battle, the stress affected my work and when my dear son John, who was suffering from schizophrenia, died in 1996 from alcoholic poisoning, both I and my life fell apart.

I stayed in bed, drank heavily, cursed God, cried and cried some more. Grief in a healthy person is intense but short lived and they soon get on with the business of living. For almost two years, I was unable to write, to think, to move on. Support came from friends, from a much improved relationship with my daughter and from the undimmed belief that there was a non chemical way out of the darkness.

More counselling helped as did tai chi, spiritual healing and herbal medicines, particularly St John's Wort and a supplement called CQ10. In January of this year, West Midlands Arts awarded me a Creative Ambition grant to explore the internet and a whole new world, quite literally opened up for me. Do I still get depressed? Occasionally, if I'm over tired or can't cope with my problems. At least 20 people related to me by blood suffer from some degree of depression; most of them take Prozac or another SSRI so there is probably a tendency to underproduction of serotonin in our genetic makeup.

I think that unhappiness becomes depression when it corrodes and destroys a person's quality of life. As a child, I became unable to see my own virtues, abilities and talents, perceiving only faults and failure.

Unhappiness is a healthy reaction to negative and harmful events and it soon passes. Depression turns the whole of life into a nightmare you can't escape from.

Depression was and is a common experience. The World Health Organisation recently announced that it's becoming the world's second most debilitating disease. For complex reasons, we can't just throw depression off like an outworn, unnecessary coat when we or our lives change. We can, however learn new, healthier ways of acting, gradually letting go of damaging behaviour that no longer serve us or our children. I raise my cup of St John's Wort tea and offer a toast. "To life and the pursuit of happiness!"

Useful stuff

The Samaritans (national link line) 0345 909090

Books
Dr Dorothy Rowe - Depression: The Way Out of Your Prison, Fontana 1983
Louise Hay - You Can Heal Your Life, Eden Grove Editions 1984

Links
A Light In The Darkness; mental health support
The Depression Alliance
Depression Is An Illness, Not a State of Mind