Through the dark cloud of depression: more people suffer from depression at some stage in their lives than is often recognized. Here we print one person's account.

More people suffer from depression at some stage in their lives than is often recognized. Here we print one person's account:

In the late 1970s I suffered from clinical depression which went undiagnosed for nearly 18 months. It was the worst experience of my life.

It began after a bout of flu, brought on by a period of intense work and domestic difficulties which had left me with sleepless nights. This gave me a chest cough for which I failed to seek proper medical help. Instead I drank endless cups of hot coffee. It was shortly after the death of my father, which left a vacuum in my family life. My faith in God was at a low ebb and I felt a complete spiritual emptiness.

When I thought I was over the flu I went for a swim to try to restore my fitness. It was early winter and the exercise was premature. As I walked home afterwards in the cold of the evening I suddenly felt as if a dark thunder cloud had passed over my brain. I soon began to develop stomach cramps and a constant feeling of tiredness. The cloud would not lift.

The following January I was scheduled to go abroad for six months with my work. Colleagues were relying on me and I could hardly change my plans, though had my condition been understood I would never have gone. I tried to buck myself up in the belief that the warmer climate would do me good. Indeed, once there the warmth did help me to recover from any lingering chest infection. But the constant tiredness and stomach pains would not go away. I became tearful at the slightest provocation. And I was afraid that the stomach pains might indicate a more serious illness.

While I was abroad, friends and colleagues were sympathetic. They encouraged me to go to a local doctor who put me on a sedative, but this only made me feel more lethargic. Others tried to cheer me up or simply told me to stop whingeing. I tried to put on a brave face, which probably hid my real feelings and prevented a more thorough diagnosis being reached. But my family back home were deeply worried and wrote to say so.

After six months abroad, I returned home and went on holiday for a month, thinking that a thorough rest would do the trick. It didn't, and I returned to work still feeling much the same. The stomach pains continued. Twice my doctor sent me to have barium meal tests at a hospital in case there was a cancer. Nothing showed up.

Extraordinarily, at night I would dream the sweetest dreams, only to feel the stomach cramps beginning again as soon as I woke. Sometimes I wished I could end it all and never wake up.

The following Christmas I told my colleagues that I would go home to my mother and not return until I was better. I stayed there for three months.

One faithful friend was praying for me and visited me regularly. One day he suggested that I should see a friend of his, a woman doctor of Christian faith. She asked me to describe my pains, and all that I had been through. Had I been kicked in the stomach, metaphorically, by life? Yes. Was I prone to tearfulness? Yes. She knew instantly what the problem was: I had depression brought about by what she described as a chemical imbalance in the system. No amount of rest or self-effort would have cured it. She put me on a course of pills to be taken for six months. But within three weeks I was already beginning to feel infinitely better: more confident, more self-assured, more at peace within myself and happier.

Life soon took on new meaning. My work became much more creative and I felt that God had a purpose for me after all. To this day I am grateful to my friend who encouraged me to visit that doctor.

Could the whole painful episode have been avoided? There are many different symptoms of depression, and many causes--some more difficult to overcome than others. So my experience shouldn't be taken as being valid for everyone.

Perhaps it was necessary for me to go through a period of suffering in order to gain a deeper sympathy for others. But I am sure a loving God does not want to inflict suffering on anyone. Looking back, perhaps if my lifestyle had been different with fewer stresses and strains, and less self-pity on my part, I would not have had so many sleepless nights in the first place. Had I been more open with friends and colleagues about all that I was going through, perhaps they would have been in a better position to help before the illness set in. But my whole upbringing had been one of toughing things out rather than showing signs of weakness.

One thing is clear: though my illness may have had a spiritual as well as a physical root it needed a straightforward medical cure. No amount of urging to pull myself together would have made the slightest difference. That only made me feel more guilty when I couldn't do all that was expected of me. What is also astonishing is how long it took for my friends, colleagues and the medical profession to have the slightest idea what was wrong with me.

What I went through may have been only a tiny part of the world's suffering, though for me at the time it was all-consuming. But, in my case, the love and goodness of God triumphed in the end. At the time, it was more difficult for me to realize that he was with me, even in the midst of the worst moments. But, like fingernails on a rockface, that was the hope I clung to.