Former features editor at Cosmopolitan ROSIE MULLENDER says there should be no stigma around taking antidepressants.

Before I was diagnosed with it, I knew a few facts about depression.

I knew, for example, that theoretically it can happen to anyone (although not to me, obviously).

I knew fresh air and exercise and surrounding yourself with friends are the best cure. And I knew that although antidepressants can be effective, it's better to avoid them - because even if they work, you're not really you anymore, are you?

As then-features editor at Cosmopolitan magazine, I'd interviewed lots of women who'd experienced depression. But even with what I thought was a pretty good handle on things, a lot of what I 'knew' about depression was absolute rubbish.

Four years ago, I fell into a black hole. It had been a long time coming: self harm as a teenager and a bereavement in my early 30s had nudged me close to the edge, only to be pushed in by the ultimate cliché: heartbreak.

Even though I'd read loads about depression, I wasn't prepared for it. It was far, far worse than I'd ever imagined. It's not like that time you felt a bit down and didn't fancy going out for a few weeks. Depression consumes you, until you can barely remember the person you were before. And despite the warning signs, I was shocked it had happened to me.

My life was almost embarrassingly like a rom-com about a ditzy, shoe-obsessed magazine columnist, yet that didn't protect me from suddenly finding myself in daily, grinding despair. I literally couldn't concentrate on anything else other than how I was feeling from one moment to the next. 'How bad is it right now? How about now? Is it getting worse?' was my constant mental soundtrack.

Naturally, I turned to Dr Google for advice, who told me to socialise with friends and get some exercise. But just the thought of finding the energy to buy and running gear and then to actually go running was ridiculous, and even a brisk walk meant coming face-to-face with far too many people who appeared to be coping with life better than me. Social invitations dried up a bit too, when it became clear that I'd almost definitely start crying after a single glass of wine.

I was in a bad way, and needed help. Yet asking my GP for antidepressants meant facing the biggest myth-mountain of all. The stigma attached to using antidepressants, so often painted as emotional fillers used to artificially plump up your happiness, was too strong. Sadly (and, I'm sure, tragically in the case of some sufferers) they can feel like a last resort rather than a first port of call.

When I finally asked my GP for help and was put on a low-ish dose of Citalopram, I waited for a fug of fake joy to envelope me. But instead, after a couple of weeks, I woke up feeling like the corner of a heavy dust sheet had been lifted up. And there I still was, hiding underneath.

Gradually, the whole sheet peeled away, and although it was hard, I wanted to be open about it (as an editor on a women's magazine, paid to extract confessions from people, I felt more than a small obligation to put my money where my mouth was).

My reward was finding a hidden swathe of friends who were only able to be their sunny, funny selves thanks to antidepressants. One friend even shrieked, ''Pram buddies!' when she found out we were on the same prescription.

I was lucky in another way, too: antidepressants don't work for everyone, but after about eight months I was able to gradually reduce my dose to nothing, with only one relapse.

The realities of depression are more frightening than the myths, and it's understandable that anyone who hasn't glimpsed behind that curtain wouldn't want to peer too closely at it. But when the myths stop people getting the help they need, it means a lot of people suffering needlessly. I learnt the truth about depression the hard way - but I'm hoping that as talking about it becomes more accepted, other people won't have to.