I don't remember my first encounter with depression. As far back as I can remember, I've experienced bouts of hopeless, profound sadness. As insane as it sounds, at the age of eleven I barricaded myself in my bedroom for a week, because I had become obsessed with Dawson's Creek and had spiralled into a deep depression because I didn't actually know Katie Holmes or live in Capeside. By the time I had reached high school, I was a publicly cheerful, oft-depressed and at best, numb teenager.
For years, nothing would excite me. Most days I would wake up, go to school, go to work, complete somesort of thoughtless extra curricular activity and then lie in bed, sleeplessly, waiting for the next day to come. I avoided telling my parents or a doctor that I suspected I suffered from depression, for fear of discovering I didn't suffer from anything - this was simply as good as things could get.
My boyfriend and I broke up in November, essentially because my own anxiety and misery had rendered me undateable. I went to a doctor the following week.
Somewhat ironically, this is the most openly I've ever discussed my depression and the most I've written since I completed my journalism degree a year ago. I almost applied to intern at Jezebel.
Thank you for this.