How many times will you hear their condescending voices telling you to stop feeling sorry for yourself? As if you chose to be this way. You wonder if they truly believe depression is that simple.

At one moment, you go from a buoyant, indomitable spirit to a scowling, angst-ridden nonentity. And it’s never a convenient time for a crisis of confidence. You are already so behind on everything else that you just don't know what to even do anymore. You’re just drifting. Lost. Lost. Lost. What had previously seemed so near is suddenly unattainable, leaving only a trail of tears in its brackish wake. And whenever you have one of your “episodes,” you shut down. Sometimes you just sit still, frozen, with your face contorted in distress and your eyes leaking fat tears. Your body trembles, raked with silent sobs. You can't work. You can’t concentrate. You can't move. Stuck.

We all have to cope somehow. You might write, draw, or sing. Or you might cut, burn, binge, purge, drink, starve, scratch, pull, overdose…anything to take your mind away from the utter misery it seems to be so obsessed with. You’ll do anything to ease the pain. You can speak. That was never the problem. It's just that they won't notice because you possess the kind of pain that can’t be seen or heard. You do not have hospital beds, drips, bandages or stitches to make people worry. To make them realize that this sad little girl is actually sick and needs help.

It hurts. It stabs you like two tiny pricks in your heart. And there's the hate too, the putrid core of bitterness that can't be revealed. So you plaster on a megawatt smile or don your signature poker face. It’s all a big masquerade. The agony bubbles up, but it won't surface. You’re too afraid to rock the boat. Of course, the depression will have shattered any self-esteem that you might have had, so you’ll be too afraid to ask for help. You just go on waiting for someone to observe your downward spiral into a vortex of oblivion.

Don’t worry; it won’t always be so bad. Sometimes you might even feel stable. You might stand upright, without downcast eyes and hunched shoulders, seeing a glint of hope that someday things will be better. You’ll feel like you have the strength to battle this disease. Then one small thing will go wrong, and you’ll fall apart all over again. The smallest crack in your fragile world can make it all seem pointless. The most insignificant mistake can cause you to despise yourself more than ever.

So you do what you know best. You withdraw. Everything turns dark and ugly again. There is nowhere left to run. You are trapped and held down by your wings until every iridescent feather is plucked and you can never fly. You’re a mess. All you can see now is pulsing crimson agony. Eventually, you begin to anticipate the bad times. Happiness becomes an alien emotion that you won’t even allow yourself to experience. So you gradually become numb to it, which at times is worse than when you’re on the bedroom floor bawling. You find yourself begging to hurt again, because any feeling is better than no feeling at all. Constricted by your emotional bonds, you wait until the blood circulation finally cuts off and all you can taste is relief.

Then you’re drowned by depression. It's scabbed, fleshy hands curl across your neck, strangling you. Skin on skin contact. It's nimble fingers rapping on bone in swift motion. In murky waters you sink without a fight. You are too powerless to even save yourself. Now you’re just watching as you gasp for breath beneath the lapping waves. Finally you hit rock bottom.