Six years ago I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia caused by trauma.  I pushed everyone away, walked out of my job as a Purchasing Supervisor, because I felt like I was being bullied and victimised, so I hid myself away from the outside world.

Before I was diagnosed I thought the whole street was talking about me, they knew everything about me and would not leave me alone, I felt like I could snap at any moment, but I didn’t. 

At the age of 13, I began being bullied in school and as a result, I started suffering from depression.

I wasn’t officially diagnosed until I was 18 and despite having involvement with mental health services from the age of 17, I was largely negative about mental illness. Those with a mental illness were bad or weak people as far as I was concerned.

Despite my battles with depression, I became exasperated with those who struggled with depression, anxiety or similar illnesses in my late teens. They weren’t really ill. They were just weak or lazy.

Disclosing mental health diagnoses is rarely a comfortable experience.

I have had depression nearly all my life. When I was in junior school I would look at other children and wonder why they were happier than me.

When I was a teenager I hated the world and so self-harmed. After the births of my children I experienced post natal depression, and, in my late twenties/early thirties I was diagnosed with clinical depression. Up until my mid-thirties, I perpetually felt like my head was a dead weight.

I seem to have had depression on and off for more than forty years. My cycle was a serious episode every five years. 

The 'cure'? Medication.  Initially in the form of sedatives, which I was told were not addictive, but found out otherwise when I decided one Saturday to ditch the meds and find out who I was.

From as young as I can remember, everything had to be a certain way. 

Teddies had to be lined up in a certain order, ornaments in a certain pattern, etc. My room was always immaculate as a child. My bed was always made, my clothes always put away neatly. 

As I got older and moved in a flat of my own, I guess it increased but for me it was just a natural way to be.

"My name is Dom Atreides and I have an eating disorder."

Does that surprise you more than, say, "My name is Mary Atreides and I have an eating disorder"?

I'm a 47 year old man and like many men of my generation I have never mentioned my problem until recently.

I have always been very underweight for my height (six feet) and became accustomed to brushing off frequent questions such as, “Do you have AIDS?” and “Are you a heroin user?” with mumbled excuses such as, “I've always been thin,” “I've not been well,” and  “I've not had time/money to eat that much recentl