I was six years old, maybe seven when I first felt the onset of depression. I saw my Raggedy Ann doll, slumped against the wall, and thought, “I feel like a doll.” While I couldn’t completely deny my humanity, I panicked, knowing some part of me felt distinctly more doll than human. This was the only way I could articulate the feeling at the time and it scared me. The scared feeling was at once a slow-boiling existential turmoil, one which my young self could not make sense of, and also a primal fear, startlingly physical. It gave me headaches.

As I grew into adolescence, the headaches subsided and gave way to more traditional symptoms. I napped constantly, avoiding each of my modest responsibilities as best I could. I loitered on AIM and MySpace, constantly comparing myself to everyone else. With this kind of behavior I unleashed great cruelty upon myself — I was worthless, already failing at such a young age, wasting all of my time. I was also perpetually lonely, regardless of the number of friends I had. They were all so much better than me, too; I couldn’t dare tell them I was a fraud. They probably secretly hated me anyway, so what was the point of pretending? Why couldn’t I just run away?

It was difficult to separate the symptoms of depression from run-of-the-mill teenage angst. But as I entered college and the same feelings and thought patterns persisted, I realized I faced a lifelong issue. I felt incredibly hopeless, as I had been on medication and in therapy since the age of eight and my issues never truly subsided. My instinct at that point was to run away from all forms of treatment. Somehow, though, I found it in myself to continue, and realized that education and self-empowerment were the keys to understanding my condition.

As I opened up from within myself to accept the teachings of the world around me, I realized that I was far from the only person who struggled like this. I had always known it logically, but would convince myself that others with depression were fundamentally different from myself — any commonalities were simply coincidental and had nothing to do with our diagnoses.

Ultimately, I realized that I had absolutely no basis for thinking this way. I didn’t truly know anyone’s story but my own. We as sufferers, survivors, or however you may think of yourself, are not encouraged to tell them. Stories of depression are confined to small offices, whispered confessions, apologetic emails, and most of all one’s own mind. It shouldn’t be this way. To do my part, here is a bit of my story:

This spring I withdrew from college. I had spent the better part of a year trying to dissect my treatment-resistant depression, but new medication after new medication only unleashed a greater beast. I was an unstable shell of a person, alternating between full days spent in bed and taking stimulants in hopes of at least emulating success. For a while it worked — I received A’s in all of my fall semester classes, participated in extracurricular activities, and assumed leadership roles. I connected with new and interesting people. I was social and active. I felt like I was coming into myself.

My momentum then hit a wall, hard and fast. Days became filled with trips to Kaiser (What medication should I try next?), my therapist’s office (Do you think I could come by twice a week?), and meetings with various staff and faculty at school (Am I about to fail?). I’ve always had remarkable self-esteem for a person with depression, but at this point insecurities ruled me. I convinced myself that all of my friends hated me. I wanted to reach out, but felt that I didn’t deserve support. It was my fault for not being the right kind of person and acting the right kind of way. I had failed myself and had no one else to blame. I fucked up.

When I could no longer handle school, I came home, hauling bags of unwashed laundry and telling no one but my family. I felt defeated. I slept for what felt like months.

Then, slowly, I began to get help. I traveled, met with friends, and volunteered. A rhythm returned to my life. I started working with an excellent psychiatrist and finally found a combination of meds that helped me feel like myself again. I joined an outpatient program at Kaiser that gave structure and purpose to my days. For the first time in so long, I was content.

Having just gained this stability, I still feel unprepared to return to school. I love learning, I love my school, and I love all the subjects I study, but college is a pressure cooker. I wouldn’t feel okay with taking classes unless I knew I could devote to them my whole self. I miss that environment desperately, but I know I am in the right place.

As I write this, I am about to board a flight to Hong Kong. From there, I will travel around Asia for three months, stopping in China, Japan, Korea and elsewhere. The decision to do this was bold, almost beyond myself. But I know I deserve it. This is that right place. I am ready, I am worth it.