I almost didn’t write it.
I have a tendency to over-share in the spirit of openness, especially on Facebook. The introvert in me doesn’t always filter my posts and because I don’t have to look anyone in the face to gauge their reaction, I often post first, think later. And sometimes, if I’m honest, I’m looking for people to back me up in my opinions.
“Oh, yeah?” I think when I’m trying to defend a position. “Let’s see what Facebook has to say about that.”
But I don’t want to talk to you today about social media etiquette or common sense rules for online relationships.
I want to talk to you today about what happened when I started talking about depression. Specifically, what happened when I started talking about my depression.
First, a disclaimer: I’ve only recently started accepting my diagnosis. And there are people who have had longer, more brutal struggles with mental illness than me and they are far more qualified to talk about it. And I am not advocating a one-size-fits-all solution for depression or any other mental illness. This is not a debate about medication or the spiritual side of depression and anxiety. This is simply one story from one person.
Continue reading this post, my monthly contribution, at Putting on the New.