Content warnings: Contains thoughts of suicide and discussions of severe depression

The doctor leaned across the desk that separated us. “After learning a bit more about your symptoms and behavioral track record, it seems to me that you show signs of having severe depression.”

There was a brief moment of silence before I finally spoke up. “I see…” was all I could manage to say. 

“I know it’s a lot. But it doesn’t mean it won’t get better.” She sat back and turned toward her computer. “Let’s discuss the course of action we can take.” 

My heart dropped into the deepest pits of my stomach while my psychologist compared antidepressants. Somehow, I always knew that I had a form of severe mental health issues, but even after months of wondering, I never expected someone to confirm it. With years of trauma, heightened anxiety, and constant emotional imbalance, it made sense that a professional diagnosed me at that point.

Hearing those words turned everything I’d feared into reality. Then again, it also wasn’t that strange when I looked at the full picture. In fact, I represent part of the large percentage of the population found to have depression.

According to The Recovery Village, in 2017, the year I was diagnosed, around 17.3 million Americans experienced major depressive episodes and were confirmed to have some form of psychological disorder. When compared to a current article by Gallup, we can now see that 18% of the overall population suffers from depression. This has likely increased due to factors such as the political climate, global rights issues, and the impact of COVID. These statistics may not include everyone, but they do demonstrate the growth of poor mental health.

When I looked back at the questions my doctor asked me, I felt foolish for not realizing how bad I had gotten. I was always tired, lacked motivation to do things I enjoyed, and had little to no energy to take care of myself.

Somehow, I believed I was broken, like I had become a husk of who I used to be. As a child, everything was so bright, and my peers didn’t shun me yet for being different. I still appeared normal in the eyes of any other kid.

Middle school changed all that, and the bullying began. The other students judged me for my weight and for being in special-ed for my emotional issues. They treated me as if I were a freak, and I experienced numerous hardships. Even with the groups of friends I had at the time, I still felt alone.

It only got worse the older I grew. By high school, the anxiety kicked in and turned me into an anxious perfectionist. This was yet before I knew I had this disorder, and mixed with my worsening distress, it led to long days of strain. It reached one of its lowest points back in 2017, when I registered that I was declining faster than I thought.

I recall sitting in my room, staring at myself in the mirror and dwelling on how invisible I had become. I watched as I silently cried, thinking that it would be better if I disappeared. Would anyone notice my absence? Maybe they wouldn’t care, or might even be happier without me. Those thoughts swarmed my mind and drowned me like an ocean sucking me into its darkest depths. And for a moment, I thought of letting it swallow me whole without taking another breath. Of succumbing to the waves and never popping back up. This was the day I learned the real strength of my melancholia.

After that, I came to terms with the fact that I had a new roommate in my head. Depression was here, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

Thanks to my unwelcome guest, I lost a lot of motivation to do things I loved. Writing became difficult, hanging out with friends turned minimal, and taking care of myself turned into a chore. I only defined myself as a depressed mess, feeling completely lost and as if my old self had vanished.

 At some point, I couldn’t go on that way and took action by seeking help from professionals. I began taking medication to control my depressive disorder and practiced being a little easier on myself. If I kept treating myself harshly because of my cognitive health, I knew I wasn’t going to get better.

I’m not suddenly cured. However, it has allowed me to mellow out a bit and realize that my battles don’t have to define who I am. I’m more than just a nobody with depression.

I’m a good friend who cares about those in her life, a hard worker and survivor who’s stared through the darkness within herself. Instead of reaching for that permanent end to my pain, I’ve chosen to fight through it. I chose to survive instead of die.

Thoughts such as these help make things bearable, despite the disorder never fading completely. Although I’ve had to accept that this shadow will always be a part of me, I can continue onwards. This is just a war I’ll have to keep fighting for the rest of my days. One that I don’t plan on losing anytime soon.

Editor: Shannon Hensley