The sadness hits me in one giant wave. I’m just minding my own business and suddenly I’m drowning. It’s usually at night, my depression creeps around the corners of my room in the darkness, enveloping me unexpectedly.

The sadness isn’t as bad as the anxiety attacks, though. Those are the worst. I roll restlessly in my bed, unable to catch my breath, hyperventilating. I just want to sleep, to rest, to be peaceful, but something comes over me and I’m out of control. I can’t focus, my mind is racing and my heart pounding. I close my eyes and clench my fists, waiting for it to pass.

Most days, I’m unenthusiastic about everything. I feel drained, exhausted, like I’m sleepwalking. I feel as if I’m just going through the motions and someone else is controlling me, a puppet master of sorts. I am numb, obsessively watching the time, waiting for the clock to hit 5 p.m. so I can go home and lay in my bed. I feel isolated and alone; sometimes I want to see people, but I’m so tired from the day that I would rather lay down, wallowing in my self-pity.

When will this end? I ask myself. When will I feel normal? What’s wrong with me? I cry for no reason. I lose my appetite. I stare at myself in the mirror, the word ugly repeating in my head. I want to throw something. I want to scream. I want to curl up in a ball. I want to never leave my room again. I want to get away. I want to sleep forever. I want to see people. I want to be alone. I want to be OK.

These are the bad days.

Some days, I have a semblance of normalcy. I feel better. I get excited about things. I get ready and am confident. I laugh and joke and see my friends. I smile and it’s genuine. I think of how fortunate I am. I see a silver lining in everything. I think positive and am ready to change my life, taking steps towards a better me.

But these days make the bad days comparatively worse. For every good day, there is a terrible day. For every normal afternoon, there is a restless night.

I isolate myself and self-sabotage. I make terrible decisions. I realize what I’m doing but cannot stop, it’s like watching a train derail. Don’t do this, don’t do this, I tell myself, as I continue to do it. I am destructive. I am vindictive. I am angry. I scare myself with my thoughts and actions.

“What’s wrong with her?” I hear my mother say to my father, as I head up to my room in a terrible mood, on the verge of tears while simultaneously so infuriated I could scream.

I wish I could answer that. My therapist tells me simply that it’s anxiety and depression. My parents tell me it’s overreacting and something I need to get over. My friends tell me it’s an excuse. To me, it’s constantly trying to keep my head above water.

Sometimes it feels like I can’t do this. But I have to. At times, I admire my perseverance. Other times, I beat myself up, angry at my feelings and how I act. What are you doing?

I don’t know.