I don’t remember when it started, it just always seemed to be there. Many would say I was generally pretty happy, but I think we become very good at putting on a ‘face’ to the world. We have expectations placed upon us that we must live up to, no matter the cost. I was expected to get up and go, always. Not getting up, not going just was not an option.

It didn’t mean I did anything, but I got up, I went, sometimes it was right past the school and into the coffee shop. But I got up, I went. And I sat. For hours. Maybe that is why I cannot drink a cup of cold coffee? I was never alone, someone always accompanied me, but I was alone.

Depression and the darkness that came with it were the two friends that followed me from eighth grade through high school (and beyond). In a strange way, I loved the hold that they had on me. It wasn’t teenage angst; it was the feeling of being connected with something. I had friends, good friends, but I didn’t feel understood.

The depression understood me, it allowed me to express myself, I flourished under its wing. My writing, creating, music – everything seemed to come together when I was under its spell. Soon, it was my best friend and it felt like all I needed. I don’t want to get all poetic and say I descended into its darkness, that’s dumb. It swallowed me whole. It is what depression does. It chewed me up and gave me a false sense of security.

Yes, I’m totally more creative when I’m depressed. I can write like a demon when I’m depressed. It felt like it gave me all these gifts, but it took just as much as it gave. Hindsight has given me this insight. At the time, I was a moody, sad, volatile teenager that thought she was so good at hiding everything. She was not.

Maybe I wasn’t all that creative? I loved to make music. I loved to write. I don’t have much from that time of my life, the odd song lyric, the melody long forgotten, even though the chords are written down with the lyrics. Some stories typewritten on the old IBM Selectric (or even on the old manual typewriter I had). Many more long lost.

However, many more hours were spent listening to music, lost in the moments of sadness, in tears, contemplating whether I was worth anything. Whether I should live or die. How much I hated myself.

Because depression lies. My friend was filling my head with so many lies. Telling me constantly I was worthless. That I was garbage. That I was all kinds of horrid things I’d rather not write but remember so clearly. Making sense of a friend who allowed me to be so incredible yet made me feel so terrible was confusing. It didn’t make any sense. At fourteen, fifteen, or sixteen, it didn’t make any sense to me. But I let it swallow me whole. It was better than what I had going on around me, so I embraced it.

It whispered to me to give it all up. Say goodbye to life and slip away. It seemed so easy. I remember thinking how warm it would be, to just let it all go. How it wouldn’t hurt anymore, the terrible thoughts would stop. So easy, so simple. Let go, it told me, let it all go. Who would I be hurting? No one would care, no one would be missing me. It would make life so much easier for everyone!

That is another lie, of course, it doesn’t. A failed attempt and in a moment of clarity, I was able to realize that. After that, I developed touchstones. Things that I was able to reach for that I knew, no matter what, would pull me back from the edge. My sister, and my Gramma. They needed me, and I needed them.

Depression chased me all through high school. Sometimes, I’d do okay for a while, but it always had a hold on me. I did do some counseling for a while, but it never seemed to be quite right. Three steps forward, four back. I got tired of feeling terrible and shitty and like I didn’t deserve to be happy! The lies of misery I carried around were becoming a noose, a weight I carried, and I didn’t understand why I couldn’t let go of it.

I just wanted to be free of it, but letting go of depression isn’t that easy. And that’s okay. Sometimes we battle our entire lives. Mental illness isn’t always something we can just walk away from. I wish I had a “and I walked away from it the day I turned nineteen.” That isn’t the case. Sometimes we battle our entire lives with depression, and that is okay. Battling is half the fight.