Updated: August 1, 2016
Originally Published: March 14, 2016
At 18, I took a leap into independence, moving out of my mom’s house and into a modest one-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a small space near campus, with rent I could barely afford and furnishings that were equally basic. I filled my new home with items from Target, including a set of nesting tables, a couple of beanbag chairs, a blue card table with folding chairs, a futon, and a flimsy but necessary white bookcase. (What can I say? I’m a book lover, and I always have been.)
While the decor was minimal, it was my space—completely mine. Just two weeks earlier, I had started college and had been living in a hotel close to campus. The day I moved into my apartment was the most thrilling moment of my teenage life, but it was also incredibly daunting. In those two weeks, I had rapidly spiraled into a dark place. I went from being a high achiever to feeling like a “failure.” I started skipping classes, choosing instead to hide in a dim hotel room, eating less and sleeping more.
By the time I held the keys to my new apartment, I was already embroiled in my first depressive episode.
As young adults, we receive countless warnings about the dangers of drinking, drugs, and unprotected sex, but no one prepares us for the isolation that can come with major life changes. Nobody mentions the panic, anxiety, or loneliness that might arise, especially as you adjust to the stress of a new environment—especially if you have a history of mental health issues.
I fell into a deep depression quickly, withdrawing from college by my second semester and keeping it hidden until the end of my freshman year. I started isolating myself, spending most of my time in my boyfriend’s dorm room, hiding under the covers while he attended classes and did what young adults are expected to do. I would cry whenever he brought up school or suggested I find a job.
To everyone around me, my life appeared chaotic, but it was all rooted in my mental illness. Instead of seeking help, I allowed shame and guilt to silence me. I tried various coping mechanisms—self-medicating with unhealthy choices, yet nothing provided the relief I craved. It wasn’t until I sought therapy that I began to see a glimmer of hope. Things improved, though they were far from perfect; I felt a shift simply by breaking my silence.
It has taken me 16 years to feel comfortable acknowledging my mental illness. Despite knowing that I shouldn’t feel ashamed, I often did. Fear and self-doubt consumed me. I was terrified of being labeled “crazy” and even more afraid that I was simply incapable of handling adult responsibilities.
I stayed silent, convinced that nobody could understand the profound sadness I felt or the emotional numbness that plagued my life. I thought no one cared, a belief that occasionally resurfaces even today.
However, I was wrong. Talking about mental illness can be daunting, especially when it’s often invisible to others. It’s hard to articulate feelings of worthlessness and loneliness, even when surrounded by loved ones. But remaining silent only perpetuates shame and isolation, which can worsen one’s mental state.
So, I refuse to be ashamed of my mental health struggles any longer. Yes, I still feel scared and hurt at times, but I’m done hiding. I won’t let my illness define me any more. Why? Because I deserve better; and so do you.
To anyone out there—whether you’re the friend who puts on a brave face while crying alone, the colleague who takes too many sick days, or the teenager who feels like she’s losing her mind—I want you to know that living with depression or any mental illness is challenging. Some days may feel unbearable, but remember, you are resilient. You are more than your diagnosis. You are a fighter, and there’s no reason to feel ashamed of your battle.
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In summary, I’ve learned that it’s essential to confront mental health challenges head-on, rather than letting them isolate or define us. We all deserve to feel empowered and supported in our journeys.