I love driving on Gauteng freeways, when they are not notoriously congested, that is. I know most of them intimately, every curve, every dip and each rise. The interchanges can be tricky to one that isn't familiar with them, which lane, how fast and where to connect.
In January, as I approached the Buccleuch interchange, one that is very familiar to me, my dilemma could not be solved by how familiar the interchange was to me.
The question in my mind was what speed would I need to cut in front of the truck in front of me to create an impact forceful enough to end my life on the spot? The idea of driving into the barrier on the left was very seductive. I was tired, I wanted peace and I craved silence - permanent silence.
I did neither. I was driving a 4x4 bakkie on that day and I was petrified of taking the risk, surviving and possibly killing an innocent bystander. What I did was try very hard to steady my shaking hands, interrupted by the tears that heaved out of me and cloaked myself in the shame I felt as I drove on a journey I no longer felt like being on.
Very few people know about this moment in my life - it's not one of my favourite memories - mostly because of the shame that still engulfs me when I think of it, but also the very real fear of not knowing for certain if I will never have those thoughts again.
I am talking about it today because of the social media buzz around "depression is real". Firstly, that is annoying. What do people imagine depression is - a myth?