This past year, life has turned upside down on me. I felt like my life has been constantly weighing me down. Most days, getting out of bed has been an internal struggle, with my brain trying to convince my body that no, I really don't need to go to class, or eat food, or talk to my friends. I lost weight—like, a lot of weight. I kept wearing the same two shirts because, in reality, I didn't really care about my appearance anymore.

If you know me, you know that looking nice and keeping myself healthy are things that I sincerely value. You also probably know that I love my friends and family, and exercising and going out. I couldn't even answer the phone when my mom called to talk because I felt like a failure; I didn't know what to talk to her about— the fact that I stayed in bed all day because I couldn't talk to my friends or gather enough energy to go to class, or maybe how I was up until 3:00 a.m. thinking about how pointless life was to me. Over the months, I insidiously stopped caring about everything. I mean, once I stopped liking everything that once made me happy or proud, there was nothing left to care about. So why was I acting like life was no longer worth it?

I went to the doctor because, to be honest, I felt like shit. I slept three hours a night, survived on less than 1,000 calories in a day, and was constantly sick with some type of illness because my immune system was shot to hell from not staying healthy. I sat down with my mom, faced my doctor, and told him how my best day consisted of me not beating myself up about not being perfect enough. I told him how I couldn't sleep at night because I just wanted to stop existing, because it would mean that I could stop feeling like I was alone and like I had no purpose. If you haven't seen where this is going (read: title), let me hit you with the facts: I was diagnosed with depression.

I felt stupid. I felt mad. I couldn't be depressed. I had best friends and a boyfriend who cared about me. I had a great childhood and family. I had cash, clothes, food if I wanted it. I had everything I could ever ask for. This was not me.

But here's the truth: depression can affect anyone. Just think about it. I did.

It sucked hearing the words come out of my doctor’s mouth. I cried, a lot. I didn't want to tell my friends because I felt weak. But having depression isn't weak. Getting help when you're sick is being resilient. I know now that I deserve help. Now that I've found the answer to what's wrong, I feel like I can make peace with myself and work towards being healthy and happy again.

Depression is awful, but the thing is, a lot of people you know have it. As my doctor told me, some of the brightest and nicest people you know— the movers and shakers— have depression, and it's okay if you have it too, because there is hope and an abundance of help.

So let me tell you something: depression is not taboo. Depression is a medical diagnosis that is just like anything else doctors learn about in Med School. If you break a leg during a sporting event, you go to the ER and they put a cast on it. If you have mononucleosis, you go to a doctor and they tell you to stop kissing your significant other and sleep. If you have depression, you go to a psychiatrist or a psychologist and you receive care. Don't be afraid to help yourself out. It's not "just in your head" and you won't "figure it out for yourself." It's a problem, like having an ongoing illness, and you need to take care of yourself.

I know that I don't have to be perfect. I know that my head wants me to stop fighting, to just give up. But I won't let myself. I know that some of the greatest people in my life, people who I admire and love, have the same illness. I can rely on them to help me when I'm having bad days, and I can and will do the same for them. After all, depression is a medical condition like any other that I will not only manage, but I will also beat. I know that I will have my bad days with my good ones, and I know that the road to helping myself recover is long, but I will come out on top of this.