What Does “Mental Illness” Mean to Me?

I’ve never been ashamed of my struggle with depression. I’ve never felt bad about my need for therapy. If we’re friends or even acquaintances, it’s most likely you already know this about me.

But I don’t go into the details very often because depression is, well, depressing. But this illness that I’ve struggled with — and conquered — for over ten years is something I’ll be dealing with for the rest of my life.

I understand it. I can tell you if it’s coming. I know what triggers it. Sometimes I can handle it swiftly. Sometimes it takes a while. Sometimes I use food and alcohol as crutches. I give in to the sadness consciously, knowingly. Until it’s time for me to break free again. I try not to beat myself up about it. It’s as much a part of me as any other characteristic.

It wasn’t always that way though. I wasn’t always this aware of my emotional ups and downs. In fact, it took my mom giving me an ultimatum about therapy that forced me to make the call that would save my life. That might sound dramatic, but if I was left to drown in the emotional storm I was in, I can’t say with certainty that I would have made it through.

I spent a lot of time crying for no particular reason. I was filled with a rage I could barely control. I remember one time I was on the subway coming home from work and I was…