I was diagnosed with Severe Depressive Disorder shortly after my daughter Fiona relapsed (AML). I had lots of anxiety but depression was my real demon. Quite simply, the colour went out of the world. I stopped wanting to do anything, to be anywhere, to even try. My daughter — and my son, and my husband — needed me more than ever and I was an empty husk. I suspect this surprises no one.

I’m not ashamed of it. I have never felt a need to hide it. I have referenced it but I’ve never really talked about it, the extent or impact of it, the toll it took on me. I haven’t talked about the fact that I still live with it.

And that I still take two little blue pills.

Over the course of the first year of her relapse, treatment, transplant all the shit that came after my meds changed but my diagnosis never did. We tried new stuff when I had side effects and introduced new medications when my symptoms changed.

In the early days I felt like I needed pills for everything. I needed pills to get through the day, I needed pills to fall asleep. Staying asleep wasn’t an issue because, well, I was depressed and bone weary from the long days and nights in hospital. I needed pills to fall asleep because the second closed my eyes and let my mind not be focussed on the tasks of her immediate care, Simon’s needs or some other mundane task of life, I didn’t drift off to “La-La-Land”. I went to “What-if Land”.

“What-if Land” is a magical place where all your worst fears come to life. The rides all suck. There’s no food. There are no characters — only monsters. The worst kind of monsters. Monsters of your own imagining. “What-if-Land” was, for me, filled with little pine boxes, empty rooms and a lifetime of holidays in muted shades of colour and one extra chair, one extra place setting — empty.

I do not recommend “What-If-Land”. I would give it a zero on Trip Advisor if I could.

So I needed something that would, quite literally, knock me the fuck out. I needed something that would say “Sorry Brain, you’re all done. Power. Down. Now.” I needed something more than camomile tea and deep breathing exercises. I needed pharmaceuticals.

Once I was getting some sleep — I got a bit better. The antidepressants — little yellow pills at the time I think — began working and while I sure as shit was no Mary Poppins, I was functioning. I could get out of bed, get in the shower and go the the hospital. I could spend a day/night at the hospital without crying so hard I lost my breath. I started to enjoy something I used to enjoy and was able to go back to the gym.

And I needed to. The gym is good for you for lots of reasons but especially when you are depressed. And not just to help your depression symptoms. Going to the gym was good because guess what Antidepressants make you (other than less depressed)?

Fat. They make you fat. Cause that’s what you need when you are already sad. To be fat. Honestly. The second we finish raising money for the Children’s Hospital and they cure for AML, I am putting ALL my fundraising energy into two areas. First, making antidepressants that DON’T make you fat. Second, making ALL children’s oral medications that currently taste like Kitty Litter taste like something else. Or anything else.

My point is that with the help of pharmaceuticals, I got my margins back. And I needed them back because day-to-day things happened and I needed to not always be right on the brink of a complete nervous breakdown. I had to get my shit together. Pharmaceuticals helped me get my shit together. Pharmaceuticals gave me the basic margins I needed to function and, with that, I was then able to create more margin by doing things like going to the gym, eating better, getting enough sleep, being able to tolerate social interaction like a conversation with a friend.

Imagine your life as a big long road. You sometimes travel at different speeds down the road — either because you have to or maybe you want to. You may sometimes veer a little bit to the right or to the left but, in general, you keep it on the road. There are rumble strips and shoulders on either side should you veer a little too far one way or the other that help you course correct. When she got sick I felt like I couldn’t control any of it — I was driving but somehow not in control of my speed or direction. The rumble strips rumbled but I didn’t react. There were no shoulders on my road. Only a ditch about 10 feet deep.

Three years later. I work a full-time job that I enjoy (just in case the boss finds this one, I actually mean this) I have a partner with an equally demanding, exciting career (chance of his boss reading this is slim, but, again, it’s actually true) I have two kids and all the normal demands the come with that from organizing summer camps to getting them to music lessons to attending (somewhat begrudgingly) concerts and performances. On top of that, Fiona still lives with all the fine print and has a host of doctors and appointments to prove it. Lung, Kidney, Nutrition, Heart, Growth…the list goes on.

But day-to-day, our life is pretty normal and we juggle it all. Like lots of other working parents we have “stuff”. Other people may have aging parents to care for, a chronic health condition or any number of things that demand of them more time and energy. Whatever your stuff is, it requires margin to absorb it.

From the outside looking in, it may appear — I may appear — to be one of those “I don’t know how she does it” people. The answer is somewhere between “I don’t. Its fucking smoke and mirrors…” and “I make choices…”

My choices range from having a cleaning lady to sometimes making less than nutritious lunches for my kids. I have a cleaning lady because having a clean house matters to me but not enough for me to spend 4 hours a week doing it myself. I sometimes make “pizza melts” sometimes because I’m out of sandwich meat, can’t be bothered making tuna salad and melting pre-shredded cheese, pre-sliced pepperoni in a white flour tortilla is easy and I can live with the guilt. I sometimes choose to hit snooze because sleep matters more that day then getting an early start and being on top of shit. I sometimes choose to decline a lunch meeting because I need to get out for a run. Besides, we really shouldn’t be booking lunch time meetings anyways…

These choices are all about managing — and maintaining — my margins.

I also choose to keep taking my little blue pills.