My depression was never a choice; it was a result. It was around 3 years ago that I began feeling like something was missing; I started to indulge less in the things that made me happier, I started to show little interest in people and social interactions, even with my family. At home, it was strange, they all realized I was talking less, laughing less and my overall physical and mental presence lessened significantly.
At first, I didn’t know what to call it. To me, it was foreign; something I never would’ve thought I’d ever experience. I slowly began to feel as though I was losing myself, as though I was losing sight of who I am and who I wanted to be. My parents caught up on this and took notice of my strange behavior and growing attitude towards everyone in the house. It got to the point where I would refrain from verbally replying to them, because I didn’t want to talk. When arguments or fights arose in the house, my state got worse.
It was then when I was introduced to self-harming. I won’t lie, it really did help back then, I took pleasure in taking out my anger on myself, and because I was so numb, not even physical pain got to me anymore. Though it gave me much satisfaction, I only did it occasionally, and when my parents found out, they freaked out. There were many times where I had to lie just so that people would stop asking; so you can count on me to harm both sides of my face and go into school the next day telling people it was a bike accident. I was taken to a psychiatrist as soon as my parents realized how the situation was getting worse.
The day I visited my psychiatrist, I was extremely nervous, because my parents gave me no notice. And from the first visit, she diagnosed me with depression and mild anxiety. I would probably seem crazy right now to say that I was actually relieved when I was diagnosed, because I finally knew what it was. Nevertheless, I didn’t have any answers. I didn’t have any answers as to why I couldn’t sleep at night, as to why I sometimes feel like there’s a fist clenching my heart, and as to why I found myself feeling completely alone, even when surrounded with the closest people to me.
It’s now been 3 years since I was first diagnosed, and to be honest, I feel a lot better, and I’m not just saying this to give people hope, because there’s always hope. Yes, I do have my days when I feel alone, miserable, trapped and just… plain sad, I can’t deny that, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t have happy days when I feel like my heart’s at ease and peace.
My experience taught me that it’s never too late to get help, it’s never too late to try and make peace with yourself and try and make a better person out of yourself. It taught me when to take matters into my own hands and not just give up and say that ‘I can’t help it’. I do realize that sometimes, it’s truly out of your hands, and that’s okay. Never beat yourself up or push yourself. Never listen to those who don’t try and understand and empathize and just tell you to “get over it”. Learn to accept your flaws; they’re what make you YOU. And lastly, wake up every morning with the mindset of “I’m strong, I’m a fighter, and I’m going to make the most out of today”.