I didn't know I was depressed. Depression wasn't something that should happen to a privileged girl with no apparent traumas, but it did. I was fifteen years old and should have been spending my days gossiping about boys, complaining about homework, you know..."normal stuff." Instead, I found myself withdrawing into the deepest corners of myself, and I didn't know how to reach out. Not that I cared, since all I could feel was a combination of self-hatred and general apathy. I wrote suicide notes for comfort, and planned on overdosing on a series of pills.

By happenstance, I was put on antidepressants for migraines without even revealing my struggles to my family or doctors. It was the drugs combined with my journals that helped me find my way back into the world. Only after my emergence did I finally realize I was suffering from depression. I've worked over the years to stabilize my mental health using meditation, exercise, and actually sharing my emotions. The most important of these was learning to love myself. It's an ongoing process, but at least now I know it is a battle worth fighting.