Prozac

My darling, you've taken up your legacy and been forced to succumb to antidepressants. You, your mother, your grandmother, aunt and uncle. A month down the road of sorting out your serotonin. Oh, for different genes.

In a way, I've wanted them for you since the beginning - I know their power and how they can return a life. The light went out and no matter how much I loved you and looked after you, there was no igniting it. It was tearing at my heart, seeing the depression in your bearing and your being and yet not being able to persuade anyone that you needed medicating out of it - that your own resources and mine were never going to be enough.

When you've lived alongside a thing all your life, you recognise it quickly. Eventually, the sleeplessness was showing in your serious, sad eyes and in your monotone voice and your exhausted little body. Such weariness. It made me ache to see. And to hear you tell me over and again, every morning as you peered round my door, that you'd woken twice, three times and stayed awake, staring up and alone and frightened and with your mind whirring and playing with you. There were only so many times I could say "My darling, my poor darling child - I feel for you" and then send you off to college, dragging your exhaustion behind you.

So you take 20mgs a day and it has returned you to me. I have my girl back. I told Monica that when we saw her last and it made you cry. I could see you crying invisibly, tearlessley, silently as we sat and made polite conversation with her about trivial things. I knew something had upset you but wasn't sure what. You were terse and perfunctory with her rambling, idiotic, forgetful questions and I wanted to hold my hand up to her face and say "Shut up a minute - I need to speak to Grace - there's something wrong with her - can't you see!". It wasn't until we got out of the door after the hour and you fell against me and wrapped your arms round my neck and sort of moaned "Oh Mum - I feel overwhelmed". It's been a struggle, getting you to realise quite how ill you've been, all these months. You seemed to come to an understanding right there and then. The difference in the Prozac-free you and the now-you is plain for you to see. You're desperate to never have that version of yourself back. It's only with hindsight that it all becomes clear. I think that clarity is a bit horrifying for you.

We have both endured such darkness. Losing such a huge part of you to this sickness and watching you disappear right in front of my eyes - bodily and mentally, thin and characterless and devoid of substance, your head self merging with your physical self (the one mimicing the other) - has felt like a slow death.

I know you see the changes in yourself. To me, they are a joyous miracle. I celebrate you with all my heart - my talkative, silly, light, friendly, sarcastic, arsey, funny, loving child is here again. She had been smothered and now she is breaking free.

I never thought these feelings, these times, these days of boredom and habit and everything being ok - never thought they'd be given back. I'd accustomed myself to a new reality and with all the effort I could muster, I'd made myself grateful and accepting of the sadness and the change and the worry and the fear. As long as I had you, I could cope. And now here I am - (those horrible miseries tucked away and murmuring quietly, just so I never forget or take anything for granted) - with my most beloved daughter sitting next to me and I am not wracked with terrifying, persisitent premonitions and stomach-clawing apprehension.

We're getting there.