“I’m depressed, I can’t get over it. I had a psychiatrist for a long time, it was ten minutes per consultation. When things got better, he would cut back on the medication, when things didn’t go so well, he would increase it, when things didn’t go at all, he would send me to the clinic. Until the day I went to my doctor, and I said, “Either you take me in hand, or I’ll stop everything. He went along with me until one day he said, “I can’t manage you anymore, it’s not my speciality. You’ll have to see a psychiatrist. She’s nice, she takes her time. She’s trying treatments. Will she find out? My first depression was over fifty years ago, and it has always lasted. I know all the signs of depression, it’s discouraging, very discouraging. I’ve come year after year to say, “Are you okay?” It’s okay,” even for my children. What’s the point of saying something’s wrong? What’s it going to change? There’s nothing they can do. They must be thinking, “She’s OK”. They will get tired of hearing “It’s not okay”. One of my brothers is depressed, he said to me some time ago: “I blame myself, I was severe with you, I told you: get a grip on yourself, I didn’t know what it was” – “Now you know!” My depression is not my fault. My uterus was removed, it was painful, but I would have preferred to have three uteruses removed rather than be depressed.

Extract from “Kilomètre 25 746” by Margot Morgiève, researcher in humanities and social sciences.