A young woman is in the waiting room at a chemotherapy treatment center. She is slightly shaky and has a colorful scarf tied around her head. As she checks in, the receptionist glances up from her computer and says, “You know, you’re not really sick.” The man sitting next to her leans over and says, “If you stop thinking about it, it’ll go away.” The nurse calls her in and adds, “You can choose to get better.”
This scenario is unthinkable, right? How could anyone say these things to someone with cancer, a potentially fatal disease? So why is so much of the population okay with saying these things to someone with depression?
I was diagnosed with depression during my junior year of high school. However, it started long before that. It took me almost a year to tell my parents that I needed help. I had heard the stereotypes associated with depression and I was scared to admit it to anyone. It felt like that by telling someone, anyone, would finally make it real and that thought terrified me. I thought I could force myself to be happy again like it was as easy a choice as what to have for dinner. I had the same notions about the disease that make my stomach curl now. I didn’t think it was a real illness. I thought it was a subconscious cry for attention and that I shouldn’t give in to it. I was so afraid of the repercussions of telling someone that I didn’t think to be afraid of the real monster.
I wish more than anything that I could go back in time and tell myself that it was okay. That I really was sick and needed help. My parents were nothing but concerned and willing to get me help. Their love and support meant everything to me then and it means even more to me now. Nearly four years later, I still have my down days but all in all I’m on the mend. It’s not something that is just cured or fixed. I know I’ll probably have to fight it all my life but now I know that I’m not alone in that battle.
Once I picked myself up enough to tell my parents, I began telling other people, slowly. Never once was I told that my problems were insignificant or fake or just for attention. However, I know that I was incredibly lucky in that sense. The amount of animosity towards sufferers of depression and other mental disorders never fails to shock me. Just because the symptoms don’t always show themselves physically does not mean that the illness is not real. The mind is just as fragile as the body and can get sick just as easily. It shouldn’t take seeing arms covered in scars to make the world realize that they need help. It shouldn’t wait until after they’ve overdosed on sleeping pills.
Depression is a very real disease and is in no way a plea for attention or a way to incite drama. 15% of those that are clinically diagnosed with depression die by suicide and too often others claim that their act was “selfish” and “the easy way out.” I’ve been there. I’ve been so low that my mind went to the darkest place where death was the only escape. I’ve also lost someone to it. A friend that I had lost touch with was suddenly gone because he felt that it was all he could do. It’s real and it’s a problem that every single one of us can help in fixing.
This is just a glimpse into my depression story, and if you have a similar story to mine; know that you are not alone. Seek help. There are sources all around to help you. Often, schools help students with mental illness for free. You can get better. You are worth it.