Hi folks,

I would like to know what experiences people have had with families that don't/won't accept our illness and who force us into denial.

In my own case I had my first panic attack at 17 and have suffered with depression and anxiety/panic disorder all my life. This was completely blanked by my parents, who never allowed me to mention my health in this respect. If I tried to speak about this they just changed the subject, or ignored me. I lived in my own secret hell.

At the age of 33 I finally decided to distance myself from my father, mother and brother, as a last ditch coping strategy.
I didn't visit for 10 years, but I sent regular letters and cards, very polite and chatty, but not personal. I did not open or read any letters from them, I just put them away somewhere.

When my father and mother were ill and died I did my duty, visiting and helping to care for them. I learned a lot about the family at that time, about my father's depression and his behaviour towards my mother. I was very unwell for about 6 years after my father's death, and only just got through it. A therapist told me that I had a large amount of suppressed anger, which he thought was feeding the depression.

I have no contact with my brother. I tried to speak to him at the hospital when my mother was in her last illness, but he ran away. He actually ran away from me in the hospital car park! He had been alright until I mentioned my own anxiety disorder and treatment. It was at the mention of the word 'psychiatrist' that he started running. I chased after him, but he was too quick for me. I didn't see him again after that.

I have a wife and a lovely grown up daughter who both know all about my illness. We are a happy family, with no secrets. We often say that we love each other, and we are always ready to listen.

My problem is that I am still plagued by thoughts of the birth family, and all the sullen, secretive years. I sometimes think that I did very bad thing in getting away from them, but other times I think it saved me. It wasn't until after I had left them, at the age of 33, that I plucked up courage to see a psychiatrist and start accepting that I had a recognised illness and wasn't alone in the world with it.

I would like to hear how other people have coped with this kind of stuff.

Thanks

Myzen