As a child, long before any diagnosis of clinical depression, I felt its claws digging its way into parts of me hidden from the world.
And as with any problem, we cannot treat what we do not know, or understand.
But I found unlikely help and great encouragement from stories.
In the pages of the many books my dad bought me, I found solace and inspiration. But these were also to be found in the multitude of stories my grandfather and grandmother told me and my cousins.
My grandad in particular loved telling us about his time growing up in colonial Trinidad; and defying the limitations set upon him as a mixed race man of colour.
This communal sharing of stories in my family fostered trust, loyalty and respect. It was almost sacred – esoteric knowledge known only to those within our family walls. (more…)