by Ethel Smith

Created on: July 12, 2007   Last Updated: August 14, 2009

I am going to write a very personal view of living with depression, with regards to my Dad and Myself. My Dad was a lovely man who had been orphaned as a young child and brought up by two highly religious maiden aunts. These aunts were a little eccentric, to say the least, and I think a little of that rubbed off on Dad. He fought in the India and Burma campaigns of World War Two, as an infantry man, for eight years. His service was exemplary but traumatic.

DAD

My earliest vague recollection of Dad's depression was when I was about three or four. At this time Dad had only been demobbed from the army for about eight years. Unbeknown to me, Dad had been in a mental hospital after being depressed and attempting suicide. Mum, my Brother and myself had gone to the outskirts of town on a bus to pick him up as he was to be discharged and return home. I remember looking at the huge wrought iron gates and waiting for him. Children were not allowed in any hospitals in the UK at that time as visitors, let alone mental hospitals. The huge gates were also usually locked.

Dad seemed fine, and the same as ever to me, and he did not have another major depressive episode until I was about twelve. As a child, when someone is mentally ill, you are often picked on and bullied, for example at school, and rarely get the empathy that you would if a parent was physically ill. I spent my teen years with Dad being ill from time to time and worrying about things that a child should not have to worry about. Money, health and relationships were all at the forefront.

When I was fourteen Dad had a thirty foot fall at work, became physically ill, and then depressed, losing his confidence and being unable to return to work for a long time. Dad finally became so depressed that he had a breakdown and was admitted to hospital once again. Eventually he was sent back to work but still had to live at the mental hospital during the week. He had to return there each night and was only allowed home at the weekends. He would call home on the way back to this hospital after work, at night, to see me and Mum. By this stage my brother had already left school and moved away from home as things had become difficult for him.

Dad came home one evening and Mum, knowing the signs, rang the hospital to inform them that she thought Dad was worse The hospital assured her that he was getting better and not to worry. The next night however he returned home early, before I had got in from school, and made a serious

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