"A Light in the Dark"

Sometimes it seems that I have been depressed my entire life. When I think about it for a while, I can remember what I was like as a child—happy, carefree, and angelically sweet. At least, that’s how I seemed to me; I had an inability to lie that did nothing to endear me to my older siblings, especially when my sisters and I were once again grounded from our Barbies (it seemed like we spent our entire childhoods in that state) and our mother asked us each in turn what we had been doing when we were ignoring the restriction as we always did. That was over all too soon; I remember my first bout of depression all too well.

I was nine.

Between the onset of depression at such an early age and my inability to comprehend social norms, I withdrew into myself. I was always shy; I became introverted and introspective as well. By the time I was twelve, I was a serious author. I don’t know why exactly I feel this is important, but I do; perhaps I feel that on some level I have my first three years of depression (mild as it was then) to thank for who I have become. Perhaps it is my basically optimistic nature showing through refusing to believe that the last half of my lifetime could have been better and more productive if I had gotten medical help earlier or even realized that I needed help before I was seventeen.

Eight years after the initial onset of my condition, I finally put into words the fact that I needed help. It took my older sister getting help for the same condition for me to realize that I really could get help. I had heard about antidepressants and I knew that I was depressed—but I didn’t really know that I had a genuine medical condition that could be treated until that point.Being to an astounding extent a proper young lady who doesn’t speak until spoken to and speaks softly when she must, I still didn’t ask for help.

If I thought that anyone who has seen me discuss anything that interests me enough to pull me out of my shell would believe that, I’d leave it there—but when it comes down to it, I’m just arrogant. I do not ask for help not only because I am painfully shy (until someone gets me going, at which point I don’t shut up) but also because I am too proud to admit that I need help. I do not speak to others because I would rather be seen as aloof than be thought a fool. I do not admit there is anything wrong because that would tell people that I am not perfect. I do not like to be told I am wrong because that shows that I am, in fact, fallible.

I have been suffering from depression half my life. Yesterday I went into the Student Health Center and was finally officially diagnosed with depression and anxiety. With a sister and at least one aunt on antidepressants and several of the other women on my mother’s side of the family most likely suffering from the same condition, the likelihood is that it is simply a chemical imbalance. It seems like a silly thing to cause such a serious condition, but the fact that the problem is physiological rather than mental makes it easier to treat.

Today is Wednesday, the twenty-eighth day of September, in the year two-thousand and five. It is my second day on Zoloft. Already I am starting to feel better, simply because I know that I will soon be able to return to something more like the half-remembered child I was—sweet, optimistic, and more outgoing and energetic than I have been for the last half of my life.