Someone gave me a memoir writing course as a gift. My first thought was ‘What have I got to write about?’ and that was followed speedily by my second and subsequent 50 more thoughts. Depression has followed me all of my life: it has been 50% of my life simply just getting through it to get to to the other 50 percent and that thought makes me rather resentful at times. Oh I know people have one leg and they’re ok with it, but dragging depression around with you like a boyfriend who never gets the message has given me a perspective of what it’s like to live encumbered by something that is out of my control to a great extent. And so I thought about how it had impacted my young life, my mother and also the fact that it had a lot to do with the spontaneity with which I’ve lived my life and a certain recklessness that runs alongside it. I have just passed sixty, an age I never thought depression would let me get to and I kind of figure that as an achievement. But that’s not the story. The story is of all the feelings and emotions during those up and down moments and what made me do the things I did? Was depression always there directing me? For example did my promiscuity result directly because I felt alone all my life due to not fitting in and being strange. Or is it because I was searching for a hug and had to get sex first to get that elusive cuddle. I’m going to explore my life against the backbone of depression (oxymoronic use of backbone I think) and all those glamorous, crazy, days, the dates I went on, the life I lived and the life I resent not living though where I am now is pretty ok. Still depressed but happier if that makes sense.