Getting help for depression turned out to be an exercise in the illogical. I was the person least equipped to be my own advocate, guide and researcher. Yet that was exactly what the mental health system expected of me. My illness was preventing me from being a functional person, but the system needed me to be superhuman before they would help. I didn’t want to live, let along make phone calls and search websites. When you tell your family physician you are ill, they diagnosis and treat you from start to finish. They don’t ask you to research antibiotics or book the operating room. You are allowed to pass the responsibility of your health to trained professionals you can trust to guide your decisions within a stable environment. Apparently mental health issues don’t warrant the same kind of attention. I was closer to death than most people who walk in to a general practitioner, but that didn’t give me the right to full support and help. They just reinforced everything negative I already believed about my value as a person, blowing things out of proportion and failing to cope in reality. I was paralyzed and delayed many parts of my treatment as a result. I feel like I had to drag the system kicking and screaming, down my path to recovery.