Mental health is the topic I wish to discuss with you. Often forgotten, brushed aside, and deemed as less significant than physical health, mental wellness is rarely a priority. Mental illness is stigmatized and stereotyped; to be vulnerable is to be weak. Despite this, I see the neglect of mental health as the real weakness and a fatal mistake. True strength, however, comes from the ability to accept and admit that you are struggling. 

I will not tell you that you must see a therapist or start on serotonin-increasing medication, for I am not a doctor. Nevertheless, I will certainly advise you to prioritize your mental and emotional well-being above all else. In a society that puts a negative connotation on “mental illness,” it is easy to overlook the deterioration of your mental health. The term “mental health” itself is innocuous; it is the stereotypes and stigmas that create the issue.

I remember the first time I encountered the word depression. It was my freshman year of high school, and I was truly at my lowest point. My parents were going through a messy divorce, and my dog had just passed away. The most detrimental problem, however, was a severe case of hormonal acne that resulted in the total loss of any confidence or positive self-perspective I had. 

I got made fun of at school, often being called “crater face” or “connect the dots” by my fellow classmates. I refused to get my photo taken. I stopped looking in the mirror for eight months. I was no longer able to make eye contact with people. I canceled plans with friends. My flawless grades started to slip. I cried myself to sleep more nights than I can count. I did not know it at the time, but the word for what I was feeling was depression. 

When coming from the mouth of my father, depression meant something entirely negative. In my father’s eyes, to be depressed was to be selfish. Only a truly selfish person would be sad when there are so many things in life to be happy about. Only a selfish, inconsiderate person would ever consider ending their own life, right? At least, that was what I was made to believe. I was criticized and judged by my own dad for something I could not control. I was nothing but a self-centered teenage girl to him. 

I wish I could convey to him the true meaning of depression. The effort would undoubtedly be futile, but I still wish it nonetheless. If I could truly make him listen, make him comprehend, maybe I could find a shred of closure.

Have you ever thought to ask me what depression is, Dad?

Listen to what I say. Listen without judgement. Listen without disgust or ill-conceived hatred. Listen with empathy. Listen with love and understanding. Listen to me. Truly listen to me. Hear what I say, and do not ever forget it. 

Depression is exhaustion. It is being too tired to get out of bed. It is not just regular drowsiness from a late night. No, depression is a much more permanent weariness. Depression is feeling too worn out to do seemingly simple things such as eat breakfast or brush your hair. It is skipping school or bailing on a date with friends because you just cannot bring yourself to leave the house. Depression lulls you into a terrible spell of tiredness. It does not care how busy your schedule is. 

“Just sleep more,” I’m certain you will say. 

But how can I do that? My antidepressants give me nightmares. 

Depression is isolation. No matter how surrounded by people I am, I feel alone. My existence is solitary. Well, at least that is how it seems to me. I feel cut off from my friends, my family, and everyone else that I know. Even in a crowded room, I remain utterly lonesome. Depression has a tricky way of making you feel like that, I suppose. It tells you that you are forgotten, excluded, and that no one will ever understand or accept you. Most days, that voice in my head wins, and I end up feeling absolutely and inescapably alone. 

“Just spend more time with your friends,” I can already hear you say. 

But how can I do that? I am too sad to get out of bed.

Depression is insecurity. It is being physically unable to look at yourself in the mirror without cruel, self-critical thoughts. Depression is avoiding eye contact because you are consumed with the fear of judgment. It destroys any confidence you have in yourself, absolutely obliterating all remnants of your self-esteem. It whispers faintly in your ear that you are ugly, useless, unloved. Depression tells me you are not good enough; like a gullible child, I listen. 

“Just stop caring about what other people think,” I anticipate you will say.

But how can I do that? High schoolers never cease to share their brutally honest opinions. 

Depression is irritability. I am not wrathful on purpose, but depression plants seeds of spiteful fury deep in my soul that I cannot ignore. Depression is lashing out at your little sisters for meaningless reasons. It is arguing with your friends over stupid, little incidents. It is being annoyed by the slightest, most inconsequential things. Depression turns a good mood into rage with just the snap of a finger. You should be angry with the world, depression demands. 

“That’s not an excuse. Just be nice,” I know you will say.

But how can I do that? The negative emotions in my mind drown out everything else. 

Depression is jealousy. It is cold-hearted bitterness that devours you. Depression is not peace or satisfaction in the person you are. Depression makes you envious of your friends because they are happy and you are not. Everyone says that comparison is the thief of joy, but they are wrong. Depression is. It manipulates you and fills you with resentment against the people in your life because you are jealous of their joy, their beauty, their success. Envy your loved ones; they are so much more fortunate than you, depression murmurs softly. I do not want to listen, but depression’s powerful influence over me is hard to fight.

“Just be content with what you have,” is precisely what you will say. 

But how can I do that? All I have is a profuse amount of sadness and a bottle of SSRIs.

Depression is unrelenting despair. It is not just being sad. The pain runs so much deeper than simple sorrow. Depression is the pure anguish of feeling overwhelmingly hopeless. It is the torment of feeling like you will never be happy. Depression insists you will never feel joy again. I try not to listen, but I cannot help it. Depression is very convincing. It does not care that you are hanging on by a mere thread and need all the hope you can muster. Even so, it continues to ravage every ounce of positivity you contain.

“Just be happy,” I can almost hear you say.

But how can I do that? I have a severe serotonin deficiency. 

Most heartbreakingly of all, depression is losing interest. It is falling out of love with the things that used to bring you so much joy. Depression is quitting sports and putting away hobbies. It is being unable to participate in your most beloved activities simply because you no longer have any interest in them. I cannot even find the motivation to pick up my favorite books. To me, that is the most tragic thing depression can do to a person. When you no longer love the very things that filled your life with joy, then you have truly hit rock bottom. If you cannot even enjoy what used to give you the purest of bliss, then what is the point of living? 

“Just find new things that make you happy,” I expect you will say.

But how can I do that? Nothing stops the ache in my heart. 

Of course, I would never really say any of this to my father. It would be pointless anyway. No matter what I say or how many tears I cry, he will never understand. 

Maybe someone will understand someday. Somebody else will tell me that I am not selfish or inconsiderate. They will say that depression is real, and my feelings are valid. They will comfort me and remind me that no matter what depression says, I am not alone. They will remind me that I am strong, brave, beautiful, and more than capable of making it through another day. They will tell me that I am appreciated and that tomorrow needs me. They will wipe the tears from my cheeks with immense love that fills the cracks in my broken and bruised heart.  

Then, they will look me in the eyes and say, “Madison, I am so proud of you.”