Somewhere along the line I seem to have become defined by my illness and stopped being me. And nobody sent me the memo.
So there I was happily (or at least as happily as you an be with chronic recurrent depression) going about thinking I was Rafa, who likes a laugh with her friends and going out for a meal and a couple of glasses of wine. Rafa who likes watching the West Wing and The Wire and satirical comedy. Rafa who likes running (when my asthma allows) and swimming and reading shit crime novels. Rafa who's a listening ear even if she often sometimes gives really crap advice. Rafa who gets on with her work without complaining too much, who does all the little bits that get forgotten and only really throws a strop when other people complain on the odd occasion they haven't been done.
And all this time it turns out I've been Rafa, with the mental health issues. Rafa who we have to treat with kid gloves in case put too much pressure on because she has MH issues. But who we couldn't possibly talk to about her MH issues and find out what triggers them and what 'too much pressure' actually would be.