My story begins in a doctor's office one afternoon in November.

I had just started seventh grade and I already knew that it was going to be a bad year. On my first day, I had made enemies with the most popular girl in school and her cronies. I was the perfect target. I was quiet, kept to myself, and had few friends.

And so, the bullying began.

At first, it was just glaring and sneering at me from across the lunchroom. I did my best to ignore them but I would end up walking home in tears. I made sure to they were dry by the time I opened the front door. Then it progressed into whispering whenever I walked by. I wrote down my thoughts and feelings but I never said a word to my family. A part of me was embarrassed. But then the other half believed no one would listen.

Who would believe a 13-year-old girl?

Weeks turned into months and it was November when I finally hit my breaking point. I came home in tears, sobbing. My dad was the only one home. He asked me what was wrong and I told him everything. I told him about the constant teasing and whispers. I told him how I did not want to go to school anymore. I was afraid of what would happen next. My dad pulled me into his arms and told me that he was so happy that I came to him. The very next day, he called my school and told them that I was being bullied and nothing was being done about it.

We scheduled an appointment with the principal and guidance counselor. I felt relieved. Something was finally going to be done. But I was so wrong. The principal explained to my dad that they could only change some of my classes so I would not be in the same ones as my perpetrator.

My heart sunk. Was this all they could do? Just move me into a different class and hope for the best?

My dad was upset but he felt it was our only option. So, my class schedule was changed and I was left to face my bully the next morning.

About a week later, I once again came home crying. My mom was home from work. She asked me what was wrong and I told her that I did not want to go to school anymore. I wanted to stay home. I wanted to cry, scream, and punch the wall. I broke down. I lost control of my emotions and screamed, "I don't want to be here anymore!"

And those words are what brings us to the present.

After I uttered those words, my mom made an appointment with the hospital and when the day arrived, we climbed into the car and drove to the hospital on base. When we arrived, we checked into the doctor's office and sat in the waiting room where I watched a screaming child be dragged by their parents and a nurse.

"Natalie?"

My mom and I were led through a door and I was instructed to take off my shoes so I could be weighed and measured. Afterward, we walked into an exam room and were told that the doctor would be with us shortly. So, we waited.

Then, there was a knock and the door opened. The doctor was in. He shook hands with my mom and introduced himself. I paid no attention to him. He shook my hand and smiled. I gave him a smile in return but I was positive that my expression said otherwise. I just wanted to get whatever this was over and done with.

He asked my mom to step out of the room; she did. It was just myself and the doctor. He sat down in a swivel chair and started to ask me questions.

"How are you feeling, Natalie?"

"Do you know why you are feeling this way?"

"Have you been feeling this way for a while?"

After each question, I answered them to the best of my ability. He started to write down some things on his clipboard and then said that he was finished and was going to bring my mom back in. When he did, I never expected the words that would come out of his mouth would change my life completely.

"I believe your daughter has depression," he said.