It’s never been all that easy for me to talk about being depressed. Despite the fact that I’ve struggled with depression in some form since childhood and more actively for the past three years, I still find checking that box and acknowledging this form of mental illness in myself almost absurdly difficult. I have lived with anxiety for 13 years, and while we’re not “friends” we’ve certainly had to learn how to co-habit the same space. Depression snuck up on me though. I never would have guessed I was the type of person to receive that diagnosis until…well, I did.

In November of 2014 I was diagnosed with clinical depression, an anxiety disorder, and disordered eating. I never fully acknowledged this on social media or to many of my friends. I guess I just didn’t see the point. For a long time, I felt weird about my diagnosis and ensuing “treatment” period. If friends saw my meds I’d tell a white lie, explaining I just took them “because I get nervous sometimes.” It took months for me to fully explain my diagnosis to anyone, including my parents. For some reason, the one that hit me the hardest at the time was the depression. I had always known I was anxious, always known I struggled to do normal, everyday things without panicking, but I had never filed myself under “depressed.” Before my diagnosis I believed a lot of stereotypes about depressed people, even ones I probably should have known better than to buy into.

For a long time I worried if I talked about my depression people would think it was a plea for attention and nothing more. I worried it would look like I was “faking it.” I was terrified that what little legitimacy I felt from the doctor’s even voice and the scratch of a pen against a prescription pad would be robbed from me by other’s skepticism. So I kept, for the most part, quiet about it. But now it’s time for that to stop.

In the spring semester prior to my diagnosis, my life went into a tailspin. I couldn’t have explained it to anyone at the time even if I’d tried, which I didn’t. I was stressed constantly, but also so completely unmotivated I felt as though I couldn’t do anything about the pressure I was under. Every task seemed impossibly complicated and hard to handle. I felt drained all the time, and I would often cry for long periods of time without understanding exactly why. When I wasn’t completely de-energized, I felt increasingly numb. Meanwhile, my anxiety grew worse and worse, until I dreaded leaving the house and even seeing my friends in a casual setting turned into a minefield of potentially panicky moments.

In an attempt to control something in my wrecked life, I turned to my eating habits, finding temporary comfort in purging or seeing how long I could go without eating food. I started to enjoy the pain in my stomach when I didn’t eat, because at least that meant I was feeling something. My body started to respond negatively to this abuse, and I not only lost some weight, but I grew increasingly fatigued because of the lack of nutrients in my body. I was often completely exhausted even after working only a few hours, and I began to notice my hands would start to shake if I exerted myself for too long. My hair also grew more brittle and some of it started falling out. Finally, I started having more and more dizzy spells, which not only contributed to my anxiety, but made it harder than ever to concentrate. There were many, many times at work and with friends when I very nearly blacked out.

Meanwhile, both my social and academic life took a serious hit. I was having trouble seeing my friends because of my anxiety, so many of my relationships suffered. My grades slid down… way down. I went from being a Dean’s List student to failing half of my classes and barely scraping by in the others in a matter of months. I was so completely zapped and not myself, I couldn’t even bring myself to turn in my assignments. So… I didn’t. As you can imagine, this wreaked havoc on my GPA and caused my parents to think I was just slacking off. I didn’t have an answer for them when they asked what was going on. I didn’t know. I felt sick, but I wasn’t. At least not physically, as far as I could tell. I was constantly exhausted, but all I could do was sleep and I spent hours and hours in bed. I wanted to get better and do better, but that desire competed sharply with the urge to go to sleep for a very, very long time just for the sake of not having to think for a while. In the end, my own inability to classify what was happening to me led me to believe I was just screwing up somehow. I felt terrible. At the time I believed I should be capable of being in control of exactly what was going on inside of me on my own, no matter how devastating the feelings I was experiencing seemed. Feeling sad, no matter how immobilizing and massive that sadness felt, was not an excuse for failing at everything that mattered to me. I was harder on myself than you can imagine, hating myself for every moment of the misery I didn’t know how to stop, which just led to more of the crushing sadness I had no tools to deal with. It was a vicious cycle.

This was my life two to three years ago. Just writing about it now I am shuddering… it was not a happy time for me. At all. I went to some very dark places that year, some of which I still don’t quite know how to handle. What I remember most was how cripplingly alone I felt. I didn’t know what was going on, and I was so, so scared it would never stop.

On the surface, as far as most people were concerned, I was still a smiling, happy girl who sort of had her life together, but the truth behind the curtain was far different. I was falling to pieces, and I had no idea what to do about it.

It’s been almost two years since my diagnosis. Two years of working on myself, of accepting my problems for what they are without being defined by them and struggling to find my way back to the version of myself I want to be. It has been two years of redefinition and exploration, of teaching myself new habits and both meeting new people who bring joy to my life, and letting go of others. It has been hard. Extremely hard. But… better. So much better.

I wish I could say I’m in the perfect position now, but I’m really not. I go through periods where I don’t take my meds with the regularity that I should. I often still say horrible things to myself that I shouldn’t say. I often compare my journey to other’s experiences and get frustrated with myself when I see I’m not exactly where I want to be. I still have dark days, sometimes extremely dark days. Depression is still an active part of my life, but it is no longer taking it over. Depression doesn’t control me anymore, and that’s why I’m writing this article.

I’m still very scared at times. A new school year is coming up, full of new academic and personal challenges, and there are moments when I’m terrified I’ll fall off the wagon. I’m very scared of going back to that dark place. But part of my journey these past two years has been building a viable support system around me that I know I can fall back on if I need it. I have people watching out for me, and I’m learning… so…very…slowly… how to be vulnerable and ask for help when I need it. It is an uphill battle in every sense of the word, but I am trying. I am growing. My progress is slow, but steady. And while I may fail and fall back, I know this time I will have the courage to ask for help right away. That helps.

My decision to pursue treatment was a huge one for me. It took a lot of courage, and a lot of time to be able to see my problems in a light of self-care instead of self-condemnation. It took a lot of gentle insistence from people who love me. It took me standing up for myself to those who didn’t see my mental and physical health as a priority. It took… bravery, as cheesy as that sounds. And that’s why I’m writing this, because I know how hard it is to be brave sometimes, and I want to give a shout out to anyone else who feels this.

Look, I don’t know who will read this, but if you’ve made it this far, this is my love note to you. If you feel this way, or if you ever have, I want to let you know you are not broken. You are not past help. You are not unworthy of feeling better. Depression is an insanely hard burden to bear, especially alone. You are not equipped to handle it, and that is okay. You will be, with time and patience and work and sharing of your burdens with others, including qualified medical professionals. I know how hard it can be to come to terms with the fact that you need help, but ignoring this darkness floating over your life will not make it go away. You are not weak if you ask for assistance. You are not giving up on yourself by seeking an out from all this pain and confusion, you are betting on yourself by looking forward to a brighter tomorrow. It is a journey. It will not be an overnight transformation. But slowly, you will learn, you will grow, you will get better. You will relapse and slide back, but, and I cannot emphasize this enough, a relapse does mean you are a failure, and having to ask for help again does not mean the first time you pulled yourself up with a helping hand was irrelevant or not a genuine triumph. You will keep pressing on. Everything you are feeling is human. Everything you are feeling should be acknowledged and taken seriously. My main point is this:

You. Are. Not. Alone.

I am afraid. I am anxious. I am a little screwed up. And, yes, I’m depressed. But I’m still going. I am still consciously pursuing happiness. I am… me, I guess. I’m not ashamed of my journey, not anymore, especially if it can help others start on their own path to a happier, healthier version of their existence.