Catherine O'Sullivan

I've been struggling with clinical depression since I was sixteen years old. Knowing at that time that even as a moody teenager I wasn't supposed to feel that bad, I asked my father if I could see a psychiatrist. He replied, "no one in this family has ever been insane and we're not goint to start with you." So I accepted that the way I felt was normal life and walked on, self medicating with drugs, booze, sex and whatever else I could find, eventually throwing myself with a vengence into the study of philosophy in college. I couldn't stand "feeling," all the time. I thought perhaps if I learned how to think it would help.

It did and it didn't.

At age 30, after having my first kid, I suffered a total breakdown. The doctors gave me sleeping pills and tranquilizers, to which I became addicted, urged me to buck up and toddle off on my way.

When Prozac was invented it changed my life. However, I never succeeded in becoming all the way not-insane.

I've since found out I'm "mildly bipolar," and been put on a combination of meds including SSRI's and a mood leveler. Somebody finally got it right. I am 52 years old.

"Melancholia," is the story of my journey through the health care industry in the United States under the care of various headshrinkers ranging from competent to nuttier than I am. It's comprised of personal essays and researched information in what I hope is a humourous and straightforward delivery. I'm not a mental health professional and don't pretend to be. I am an author, journalist, philosopher and most importantly, a human being.