She gently asked me when I began to feel so desperate and I told her it was on my daughters' birthday.
Admitting that such a supposedly joyous day should cause me pain, was hard. I felt guilty.
Why shouldn't I just shut up and get on with it like everyone else?
But as I sat on my bed at 3am,crying and contemplating throwing myself through the window, I knew I had to seek medical help.
My daughters' birthday was the last straw because here I was again, organising a party, doing the food, booking cinema tickets, sorting invitations and anticipating the arrival of a gaggle of eight to nine-year-olds for a sleepover.
What was I thinking?
I was taking too much on. Alongside the day to day tasks of work and family, for me, at this time, it was too much. It was the same every Christmas.
But would I admit it?
Would I hell.
Until I saw the doctor.
The day before, in my work as a freelance journalist, I’d interviewed two women. One had lost one of her twins at birth; the other had been kidnapped at knifepoint.
Both began to cry on the phone. I started too and couldn’t stop.
The thought of letting down these women by not being able to tell their stories, not to mention the editors waiting for the copy, was too much to bear.
To my shame, I never went back and explained to those interviewees why their stories never saw the light of day. I lost contact with the editors too. I didn’t want to be remembered as the one who was nuts.
Like all journalists, I can thrive under pressure. I know it's part of what being a journalist is all about but it also brought back terrible memories of a doctor telling me I had ‘reactive depression’ years earlier.
In a newsroom, I’d been told to ‘fuck off home’ as I was ‘obviously mental’. That was after taking time away to visit a brother seriously injured in an accident and returning with what my editor called ‘a face like a slapped arse.’
I raged inside and wondered if any other industries got away with treating employees like that. I never spoke up and quit instead.
This time, with more than me to think about, I knew I had to get better and quick.
With the doctor's help I did. I was prescribed anti-depressants. I took them for three months and remembered what it was like to be me again.
And thank God I did.
As my family approaches our beloved girls' birthday, I think I am safe to say I am glad I never jumped out of that window. And ever since, I have spoken up to get more support and help when these family milestones approach.
That year, I fell asleep in the cinema. I had no energy. Last year, as we enjoyed a day in Blackpool in the rain, there was no stopping me and this year, well this year we are all set for quite an adventure.
I hope my simplistic tale of recovery from depression may help someone somewhere.
Rethink: National Advice Service on 0845 456 0455
Time to Change, a four year campaign to end mental health discrimination.