From Name and address supplied
Your article on “Britain’s forgotten children” (22 February, p 14) struck a
strong chord with me. My own childhood was warped by my depression—and I
cannot even begin to compare my problems with those of the children described. I
am deeply aware of how lucky I am in comparison.
A bad personal situation at the age of 25 caused me to visit a doctor who
prescribed antidepressants, and I clearly remember when they (eventually)
started working and how the indescribable, malignant sensation inside me started
to fade. I had never known a time without it. In a way I never knew it was
there. I had not known that this feeling was not something that everyone
had.
Now I’m 30 and the past five years have been the happiest I can remember. I
can now hope for a better future, which I couldn’t before.
I know what factors caused my depression, but I don’t care. I should never
have had to grow up like this and no one else should. I’m lucky—my bad
time is over, but it is awful to know that others have what I have had.
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