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I was six when I realised I was sad, and there was no reason.  

I couldn’t understand it. As a kid, you assume those feelings come from the outside – that there’s some external circumstance that has made you feel that way.  

But there wasn’t.

Instead, there was this sadness monster sitting on my back that I tried to appease with achievements. Good grades, head boy, a medical degree – I fed it all to the monster and it did absolutely nothing.

All it did was make this intruder bigger and bigger, weighing me down more and more.  

It’s only when I qualified as a doctor and I was still unhappy that I thought, how long does rhinocort take to work ‘maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just sad.’  

It was at that moment, aged 25, that I turned to face the monster and asked, ‘what do you actually want?’.  

The only way I could get an answer was to go to the doctor, and it was my GP that diagnosed me with depression and he put me on medication.  

I now realise it’s something I’ve been dealing with since I was a child. I always say I still suffer with it, rather than ‘suffered’, even though I’m currently quite well, because mental health is an active process.  

Just like a physical condition that can’t be cured, I don’t believe my depression can be cured – what I do have control of though is my coping mechanisms.  

And just like my depression, my ways of managing it have changed over the years too.  

In my mid 20s after seeing the doctor I also told my then partner. I started talking therapy and just being open about how I was feeling, it really helped ease the burden I felt was on my shoulders.  

I realised through talking that existing isn’t supposed to be painful. People say, ‘Life is hard’ – and it is, but it’s not supposed to be agony. 

That was a crucial realisation for me. 

After coming off medication a year later, I found exercise. I get people tell me often that I must be really vain as I go to the gym a lot, but the truth is, I go to the gym because I’m sad. Without regular movement, I will fall into a depression, and I don’t want that.  

Exercise, fresh air, getting out of London, connections to friends – these are all things that genuinely help me.  

The thing about depression is that when you’re low, you don’t want to do any of that stuff. I call my warning signs, ‘canaries in the mind’, and one of the biggest for me is not wanting to see my friends.  

I now know that is the number one signal that I need to start looking after myself more. That I actually need to spend some time with my loved ones, perhaps take a couple of days to go to the countryside, to stretch my legs and relax.  

But while I am aware of my canaries in the mind, it doesn’t mean they are always a failsafe.  

It’s a bit like when people say to me, ‘you’re a doctor, how did you not know you had depression? Surely you could just diagnose yourself?’.  

The issue with mental health is that the instrument you need to understand it is damaged. Your brain isn’t working properly and you lose your insight.  

You can be the most educated person about depression in the world, but once you have it, that goes out the window.  

I know now that every time I have a bout of feeling low, when I defeat it, I will have a better understanding of what I can do to make myself feel better again

Medics, the people who society think should be able to recognise the illogicality of depression, have high suicide rates.  

When I’m depressed, I know realistically my friends don’t hate me, but logic starts to matter less and less. What matters more and takes precedence in my brain is the way I’m feeling: and that feeling is that I am unlikeable.  

That feeling grows until you get to the point where you think that your friends would be better off without you. When someone says, ‘how could someone kill themselves’, it’s because of that: their brain has stopped them being able to think logically and they’ve convinced themselves that things would be better for their loved ones without them.  

One of my good friends is a psychiatrist and he said to me, ‘depression can be a terminal illness if it’s not treated’ – and that’s the truth, as it can lead to suicide or can it slowly strip away your life and the person you once were. 

When I’ve employed my coping mechanisms – like going to gym and making sure I’m properly rested – I’m able to see things clearer, but there are times when the waters of my mind become more murky and I can’t see wood for the trees.  

That’s why I never think I’m completely cured, but thanks to therapy, a good support network and work on myself, I have my depression under control. I know now that every time I have a bout of feeling low, when I defeat it, I will have a better understanding of what I can do to make myself feel better again.  

I call myself a high-functioning depressive – and I’m fine with that. 

In fact, I think it’s made me a better doctor. 

As a GP, you get to be the instrument through which someone gets the help they need. When someone comes in for an appointment because they’re battling with mental health, I genuinely feel: ‘Maybe I’m that person to pull that person out of their struggle’. 

I get them to question, I get them to think. I try to be a beacon of hope for them. 

And that’s so important. Because by the time suicidal patients come to see me, hope is what they’re really looking for. 

Hope, and acknowledgement, and someone to hear them. 

 I don’t tell my patients what I’ve been through, because I want the focus to be on them and their journey; but because I’ve been in that situation, I know what can help. 

I know that acknowledging that the struggle they’re going through isn’t their fault is really important. 

I think lots of people are in denial about what they’re dealing with. The Black male community has some of the highest incidences of mental health issues in the UK, but it’s so rarely talked about. 

And when depression and suicide is talked about, it’s shrouded with so much toxicity that people fear being ostracised or seen as weak. 

That’s why I’m talking about my own depression now – and why I want to spend my life helping people.  

I’m cool with no one ever remembering who I am, so long as I can do my bit for others.  

You think, when you start achieving things, that your sadness will go away; but actually, it goes away the most when you realise what your core values are and what makes you happy. 

And what makes me happy is actually helping people, in whichever way I can. 

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