personal narrative essay about depression

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Personal Stories

My depression in my life.

By Leah Anonymous

Depression is something that shows itself differently for everyone. There is no one person, or one story, or one experience that can make someone universally understand truly how depression alters the lives of those of us who suffer from it. I can’t make anyone understand how it is for everyone, but I can tell you how it alters my life, and maybe that will help people understand how all-encompassing it really is.

For me there are two main ways that my depression manifests itself when it breaks through the barriers I have set with the help of years of therapy and medication. There is the gut wrenching loneliness and near constant anxiety and then there is the checking out, the feeling nothing at all, the numbness. Sometimes I don’t know which is worse, but I will try to explain both.

The Loneliness and Anxiety:

In some ways I consider this step one of when my depression spikes because it always seems to come first. But I don’t consider it step one in levels of horribleness. Like I said above I really think that both ways my depression hits me are pretty awful and I couldn’t say which is worse.

You know that feeling you have in your gut when you are about to and/or really need to cry. While that is what it is like. All the time. I could be laughing and having a great time with my friends, which I often am because my friends are great, and yet in the back of my mind I feel more alone than ever and I just want to curl up into fetal position and cry. But I never can. I can’t go home and cry and then feel better, because it’s not like there is something to cry about, or really anything to be sad about. And it isn’t really sadness. It is complete solitude. It’s when my brain tells me that I am alone, that I can’t be loved, that no one really wants me around, and worst of all that no one will understand me.

That is worst of all because at the place I am in my life, no matter what I have been through in the past, or what my depression tries to make me believe I know that I can be loved, that I’m not alone and that I am wanted. And I know that because of the hard work I have done to get to that place in my life, and because of some of the amazing people in my life who make sure that I know that they are there for me, that they love me, and that they want to spend time with me.

But the idea that no one will ever truly understand who I am, or any of that. That is a little harder to dissuade myself from believing. Because as much as I can tell people what I went, and still go through and what goes through my mind, who can really understand me other than me. And that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but the way my depression tells me it, it is a bad thing.

So there I am surrounded by people, very possibly having some of the best experiences of my life, feeling like I need to bawl, completely unable to, and nearly having an anxiety attack because I just want it to end.

And it is here where two things happen. It is here where I wish for and welcome the numbness because I don’t want to feel the all-encompassing loneliness and anxiety. It is also where I think about cutting.

I have not cut myself in three and a half years. And I know that it doesn’t solve my problems. I know that I shouldn’t and I don’t want to. Even when I want to I don’t want to.

But here, when I am feeling the all-encompassing loneliness which is the very last thing that I want to feel, I think about cutting because it lets me feel something else.

The physical act of cutting gives me something to think about and focus on, something other than that loneliness. And when I am not physically cutting, instead of thinking about how lonely I am and how that feeling will never end I think about the next time I can cut, or the most recent time I did.

And Then The Numbness:

I don’t really know how to explain this numbness. It is simply a period of time where I feel literally nothing. I fake happiness/normal emotion around friends, not always very well, and when I am alone I just don’t care about anything.

This is when my grades often fall because I don’t care about anything, including school, and therefore school work.

And then, sometimes I just want to feel something, anything, and so that is when I think about cutting. I think about cutting because it gives me something to feel, something I can control, but still feel.

The numbness comes because I can’t handle what I’m thinking and feeling, because it is too much for me to deal with, so I shut everything off so I don’t have to feel it.

In some ways, cutting transitions me back into feeling. But again, cutting, NOT A SOLUTION, NOT HEALTHY.

And something that I no longer do.

Now, for the past three and a half years, whenever I think of cutting, which I still do. It is still my first thought in either of these situations, I instead do one of the many things that I have come to know to help me cope.

For example, I force myself to spend more time with my friends, because I know that the loneliness will pass and I can talk myself out of feeling lonely when I am not physically alone.

I read/watch anything romantic. I pretend that I am one of the characters, and then I feel what they feel instead of what I am feeling (or preventing myself from feeling).

I belt along to old school Taylor Swift. Because what is more beautiful than a summer romance in a small country town with Chevy trucks and Tim McGraw?

And though my schoolwork does still sometimes fall through the cracks, I always make myself do some work.

Basically I force myself to live my life, because well, it is my life, and I refuse to live it feeling alone when I’m not, and numb when I could be great.

So even though I do feel those things far more often than I would like it is something that I live with, because I have depression.

Because depression is a disease, and I will always have it.

Because my depression is a part of who I am.

And most of all, because I only have one life, and I want to live it. Because even though when my depression spikes it makes me want to not live sometimes, I refuse.

Because I am the author of my own life and I choose to put a semicolon instead of a period at every point that my depression tells me otherwise.

So that is how my depression affects my life. That is how I deal with it. Like it or not I always will.

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• Depression: Major Depression & Unipolar Varieties

A Personal Story of Living through Depression

John Folk-Williams has lived with major depressive disorder since boyhood and finally achieved full recovery just a few years ago. As a survivor of ...Read More

A recovery story is a messy thing. It has dozens of beginnings and no final ending. Most of the conflict and drama is internal, and there’s a lot more inaction than action. The lead character hides in the shadows much of the time, so you can’t even see what’s going on.

I joined up with depression around the age of 8. There are snapshots of me in the shabby brown jacket I liked to wear. My mom took beautiful photographs, and there are lots of me in moody shadows, looking as down as could be.

She had her own depression to worry about. My typical memory of her from that time brings back a couch-bound, often napping, mother. She explained her sleep problem as a condition she called knockophasia – a term I’ve never been able to find in any dictionary. A few minutes after lying down, snap! Sound asleep. No one mentioned strange emotional problems or mental illness in those days. My parents occasionally talked about someone having a nervous breakdown as if they had died. There was no hint of a need to get help for my mother, much less for me. No one worried about me since I was a star in school, self-contained and impressive to teachers for being so mature, so adult.

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Migraine headaches started then, and increasingly intense anxiety about school. I missed many days, felt shame as if I were faking, and obsessed over every one of my failings. I spent long hours alone in my room.

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Through my teenage years, depression went underground. Feelings were dangerous. There were too many angry and violent ones shaking the house for me to add to them. So I kept emotion under wraps, even more so than in childhood. Nothing phased me outside the house and even at home I showed almost no sign of reaction to anything, even while churning with fear and anguish.

It was in my 20s that I broke open, and streams of depression, fear, panic, obsessive love and anger flowed out. In response to a panic attack that lasted for a week, I saw a psychiatrist. In one marathon session of 3 hours he helped me put the panic together with frightening episodes from my family life. I was cured on the spot but never went back to him. It was too soon to do any more.

It took another crisis a few years later to get me back to a psychiatrist and my first experience with medication – Elavil. But I had no idea what it was. I took something in the morning to get me going and something at night to help me sleep. I took it short term, got through the crisis but continued in therapy. From there I was steadily seeing psychiatrists in various cities for the next 8 years. But no one mentioned depression.

I first saw the word applied to my condition in a letter one psychiatrist wrote to the draft board during the Vietnam era. But I wasn’t treated for that problem. Therapy in those days was still in the Freudian tradition, and it was all about family life and conflict. Depression was a springboard for going deeper. Digging up the past to understand present problems was a tremendous help, and it changed me in many ways. But depression was still there in various forms, reappearing regularly for the next couple of decades. There were wonderfully happy and successful times as well, but I had these ups and downs through marriage, children and a couple of careers.

Gradually, depression became so disruptive that my wife couldn’t take it anymore and demanded I get help. So I finally did. This was the 1990s. Prozac had arrived, and I started a tour of medication over the next dozen years that didn’t do much at all. Nor did therapy, though two psychiatrists helped me to understand the more destructive patterns in my way of living.

Depression pushed into every corner of my existence, and both work and family life became more and more difficult. The medications only seemed to deaden my feelings and make me feel detached from everyone and immune to every pressure. It was like having pain signals turned off. There was no longer any sign coming from my body or brain that something might be wrong. I felt “fine” but relationships and work still went to hell.

The strange thing was that after all these years of living with it, I didn’t know very much about depression. I thought it was entirely a problem of depressed mood and loss of the energy and motivation. As things got worse, I finally started to read about it in great depth.

I was amazed to learn the full scope of depression and how pervasive it could be throughout the mind and body. I finally had a coherent, comprehensive picture of what depression was.

That was a big step because I could at last imagine the possibility of getting better. I could see that I wasn’t worthless by nature, that there were reasons my mind had trouble focusing and that the frequent slowdown in my speech and thinking was also rooted in this illness. Perhaps the right treatment could bring about fundamental changes after all.

There were still traps ahead, though. I became obsessed with the idea of depression as a brain disease. I studied all the forms of depression, the neurobiology and endless research studies. That was a good thing to do, but after awhile I was looking more at “Depression” than the details of my own version of the illness.

I wondered how many diagnostic categories I fitted into. For sure I had one or more of the anxiety disorders. Perhaps I fit into bipolar II instead of major depressive disorder. What about dissociation? I read the research study findings as if they were announcing my fate.

It was comforting to know I had a “real” disease. Not only could I answer any naysayers about the reality of depression. I also had a weapon to fight my internalized stigma, the lingering doubt that anything was wrong with me. I used to think that maybe I really was using the illness as a way to avoid life and cover up my own weakness. Here was proof that depression wasn’t all in my imagination but in my brain chemistry.

Neurobiology was far beyond my control. I couldn’t recover by myself. Doctors had to cure me through medication or other treatments, like ECT. However, that meant my hopes were pinned on them, not on my own role in getting better.

When the treatments failed to work, I got desperate that there would never be an end to depression. Hope in the future fell apart. My life would continue to run down. Could it even lead to suicide, as it had for friends of mine?

Fortunately, as I learned more, I listened to the experts who had a much broader view of the causes of the illness. Peter Kramer’s overview of research in Against Depression made it clear to me that contributors to the illness could include genetic inheritance, family history, traumatic events and stress as well as the misfiring of multiple body systems. No one could point to a single cause or boil it down to a few neurotransmitters.

So I went back to basics and looked much more closely at the particular symptoms I faced. I tracked the details in everyday living and saw that I needed to take the lead in recovery. Medication – when it had any effect at all – played a modest role in taking the edge off the worst symptoms. That bit of relief gave me the energy and presence of mind to work on the emotional and relationship impacts, to try to straighten out the parts of my life I had some control over.

I was determined to stop the waste of life in depression. I got back into psychotherapy and tried many types of self-help as well. Many didn’t work at all, but something inside pushed me to keep trying, despite setbacks.

One of the most important efforts was writing about my experience with depression. Writing is one way I discover things, but a deep fear had blocked me from doing it for years. I can see now that the real reason I got stuck was that I had been trying to write about everything but depression. When I could finally take that on directly, writing came naturally.

Blogging turned out to be the right medium. It was manageable even when I was down. The online community of people who lived with depression gave me a form of support that I had never had before. Another decisive step was getting out of high-stress work that I had been less and less able to do effectively. Taking that constant burden away restored a deep sense of vitality.

After all this, recovery finally started to happen. It took me by surprise, and for a long time I didn’t trust that it would last. But something had changed deep down. I believed in myself again, and the inner conviction of worthlessness disappeared.

I had found a deeply satisfying purpose in writing, as well as the energy and humor to do what I wanted to do. I regained the awareness and emotional presence to be a part of my family again, instead of the hidden husband and dad.

As anyone dealing with life-long depression will tell you, setbacks happen. There’s no simple happy ending. But if you’re lucky, an inner shift occurs, and the new normal is a decent life rather than depression. Self-awareness is key to good mental health. Take our online depression quiz today.

• Major And Unipolar Depression
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A Journey Through Darkness

By Daphne Merkin

• May 6, 2009

IT IS A SPARKLING DAY IN MID-JUNE, the sun out in full force, the sky a limpid blue. I am lying on my back on the grass, listening to the intermittent chirping of nearby birds; my eyes are closed, the better to savor the warmth on my face. As I soak up the rays I think about summers past, the squawking of seagulls on the beach and walking along the water with my daughter, picking out enticing seashells, arguing over their various merits. My mind floats away into a space where chronology doesn’t count: I am back on the beach of my adolescence, lost in a book, or talking to my old college chum Bethanie as we brave the bay water in front of her parents’ house in Connecticut, where she comes to visit every summer.

In the 20 or so minutes of “fresh air” allotted after lunch (one of four such breaks on the daily schedule), I try to forget where I am, imaging myself elsewhere than in this fenced-off concrete garden bordered by the West Side Highway on one side and Riverside Drive on the other, planted with patches of green and a few lonely flowers, my movements watched over by a more or less friendly psychiatric aide. Soggy as my brain is from being wrenched off a slew of antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications in the last 10 days, I reach for a Coleridgian suspension of disbelief, ignoring the roar of traffic and summoning up the sound of breaking waves.

I have only to open my eyes for the surreal scene to come back into my immediate line of vision, like a picnic area without picnickers: two barbecue grills, bags of mulch that seem never to be opened, empty planters, clusters of tables and chairs, the entire area cordoned off behind a high mesh fence. Looking out onto the highway overpass there is a green-and-white sign indicating “Exit — West 178th Street”; nearer to the entrance another sign explains: “The Patients’ Park & Garden is for the use of patients and their families only, and for staff escorting patients. It is NOT for staff use.”

I can see R., the most recent addition to our dysfunctional gang of 12 on 4 Center, sitting on a bench in his unseasonal cashmere polo, smoking a cigarette and tapping his foot with equal intensity. On either side of him are ragtag groups of people culled from several units of the hospital, including the one I am on, which is devoted primarily to the treatment of patients with depression or eating disorders. (The anorexic girls, whom R. refers to as “the storks,” are in various phases of imperceptible recovery and tend to stick together.) The garden is also home to patients from 4 South, which caters to patients from within the surrounding Washington Heights community, and 5 South, which treats patients with psychotic and substance-abuse disorders.

The people on 4 Center, hidden away as it is in a small building, have next to no contact with the other units; we might as well be on different planets. Then again, as those who suffer from it know, intractable depression creates a planet all its own, largely impermeable to influence from others except as shadow presences, urging you to come out and rejoin the world, take in a movie, go out for a bite, cheer up. By the time I admitted myself to the hospital last June after a downhill period of six months, I felt isolated in my own pitch-darkness, even when I was in a room full of conversation and light.

DEPRESSION — THE THICK BLACK paste of it, the muck of bleakness — was nothing new to me. I had done battle with it in some way or other since childhood. It is an affliction that often starts young and goes unheeded — younger than would seem possible, as if in exiting the womb I was enveloped in a gray and itchy wool blanket instead of a soft, pastel-colored bunting. Perhaps I am overstating the case; I don’t think I actually began as a melancholy baby, if I am to go by photos of me, in which I seem impish, with sparkly eyes and a full smile. All the same, who knows but that I was already adopting the mask of all-rightness that every depressed person learns to wear in order to navigate the world?

I do know that by the age of 5 or 6, in my corduroy overalls, racing around in Keds, I had begun to be apprehensive about what lay in wait for me. I felt that events had not conspired in my favor, for many reasons, including the fact that in my family there were too many children and too little attention to go around. What attention there was came mostly from an abusive nanny who scared me into total compliance and a mercurial mother whose interest was often unkindly. By age 8 I was wholly unwilling to attend school, out of some combination of fear and separation anxiety. (It seems to me now, many years later, that I was expressing early on a chronic depressive’s wish to stay home, on the inside, instead of taking on the outside, loomingly hostile world in the form of classmates and teachers.) By 10 I had been hospitalized because I cried all the time, although I don’t know if the word “depression” was ever actually used.

As an adult, I wondered incessantly: What would it be like to be someone with a brighter take on things? Someone possessed of the necessary illusions without which life is unbearable? Someone who could get up in the morning without being held captive by morose thoughts doing their wild and wily gymnastics of despair as she measures out tablespoons of coffee from their snappy little aluminum bag: You shouldn’t. You should have. Why are you? Why aren’t you? There’s no hope, it’s too late, it has always been too late. Give up, go back to bed, there’s no hope. There’s so much to do. There’s not enough to do. There is no hope.

Surely this is the worst part of being at the mercy of your own mind, especially when that mind lists toward the despondent at the first sign of gray: the fact that there is no way out of the reality of being you, a person who is forever noticing the grime on the bricks, the flaws in the friends — the sadness that runs under the skin of things, like blood, beginning as a trickle and ending up as a hemorrhage, staining everything. It is a sadness that no one seems to want to talk about in public, at cocktail-party sorts of places, not even in this Age of Indiscretion. Nor is the private realm particularly conducive to airing this kind of implacably despondent feeling, no matter how willing your friends are to listen. Depression, truth be told, is both boring and threatening as a subject of conversation. In the end there is no one to intervene on your behalf when you disappear again into what feels like a psychological dungeon — a place that has a familiar musky smell, a familiar lack of light and excess of enclosure — except the people you’ve paid large sums of money to talk to over the years. I have sat in shrinks’ offices going on four decades now and talked about my wish to die the way other people might talk about their wish to find a lover.

Then there is this: In some way, the quiet terror of severe depression never entirely passes once you’ve experienced it. It hovers behind the scenes, placated temporarily by medication and renewed energy, waiting to slither back in, unnoticed by others. It sits in the space behind your eyes, making its presence felt even in those moments when other, lighter matters are at the forefront of your mind. It tugs at you, keeping you from ever being fully at ease. Worst of all, it honors no season and respects no calendar; it arrives precisely when it feels like it.

MY MOST RECENT BOUT, the one that landed me on 4 Center, an under-the-radar research unit at the New York State Psychiatric Institute, asserted itself on New Year’s Eve, the last day of 2007. The precipitating factors included everything and nothing, as is just about always the case — some combination of vulnerable genetics and several less-than-optimal pieces of fate.

Despite my grim mood, I had somehow or other managed to put on makeup, pull on clothes, affix pearl earrings and go to a civilized old-New York type of dinner, where we talked of ongoing things — children, schools, plays to see, reasons to live as opposed to reasons to die. But even as I talked and laughed with the other guests, my thoughts were dark, scrambling ones, ruthless in their sniping insistence. You’re a failure. A burden. Useless. Worse than useless: worthless. Shortly past midnight, I watched the fireworks over Central Park and stared into the exploding bursts of color — red, white and blue, squiggles of green, streaks of purple, balls of silver, sparks of champagne. My 17-year-old daughter, Zoë, was standing nearby, and as I looked into the fireworks I sent entreaties into the sky. Make me better. Make me remember this moment of absorption in fireworks, the energy of the thing. Make me go forward. Stop listening for drum rolls. Pay attention to the ordinary calls to engage, messages on your answering machine telling you to buck up, it’s not so bad, from the ex, siblings, people who care.

For the next six months I countered the depression with everything I had, escaping into the narcotic of reading, taking on a few writing assignments (all of which I delivered weeks, if not months, late), meeting friends for dinner, teaching a writing class and even taking a trip to St. Tropez with a close friend. I gobbled down my usual medley of pills — Lamictal, Risperdal, Wellbutrin and Lexapro — and wore an Emsam patch. (I have not been free of psychotropic medication for any substantial period since my early 20s.) But this was not a passing episode that a schedule full of distractions and medication could assuage. Although many depressions resolve themselves within a year, with or without treatment, sometimes they take hold and won’t let go, becoming incrementally worse with each passing day, until suicide seems like the only exit. This was one of those depressions.

In the weeks leading up to my checking into 4 Center, I had gone from being able to put on a faltering imitation of mental health to giving up all pretense of a manageable disguise. Since I found it painful to be conscious, I had stopped doing much of anything except sleeping. Mornings were the worst: I got up later and later, first 11, then noon, and now it was more like 2 in the afternoon, the day three-quarters gone. “I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day,” observed the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, a depressive 19th-century Jesuit priest. I don’t think I’ve ever met a depressed person who wanted to get out of bed in the morning — who didn’t experience the appearance of day as a call to burrow further under the covers, the better to embrace the vanished night.

When I was awake (the few hours that I was), I felt a kind of lethal fatigue, as if I were swimming through tar. Phone messages went unanswered, e-mail unread. In my inert but agitated state I could no longer concentrate long enough to read — not so much as a newspaper headline — and the idea of writing was as foreign to me as downhill racing. (James Baldwin: “No one works better out of anguish at all; that’s an incredible literary conceit.”) I barely ate — there is no more effective diet than clinical depression — and had dropped 30 pounds. I had essentially withdrawn from communication. When I did speak, it was mostly about my wish to commit suicide, a wish that was never all that far from my mind but at times like these became insistent.

Although some tiny part of me retained a dim sense of the more functioning person I once was — like a room with a closed door that was never entered anymore — it became increasingly difficult to envision myself ever inhabiting that version of myself again. There had been too many recurrent episodes, too many years of trying to fight off this debilitating demon of a thing. It has been called by different names at different times in history — melancholia, malaise, cafard , brown study, the blues, the black dog, acedia — and has been treated as a spiritual malady, a failure of will, a biochemical malfunctioning, a psychic conundrum, sometimes all at once. Whatever it was, it had come to define me, filling out all the available space, leaving no possibility of a “before” or an “after.” Instead I harbored the hallucinatory conviction that I had stayed around the scene of my own life too long — that I was, in some unyielding sense, ex post facto.

I had also quite literally ground to a halt, like a machine that had hit a glitch and frozen on the spot. I moved at a glacial pace and talked haltingly, in a voice that was lower and flatter than my usual one. As I discovered from my therapist and psychopharmacologist — both of whom argued that I belonged in a hospital now that my depression had taken on “a life of its own,” beyond the exertions of my will — there was a clinical name for my state: “psychomotor retardation.” My biology, that is, had caught up and joined hands with the immediate psychodynamic stressors that precipitated my nosedive — the lingering aftermath of the death two years earlier of my mother, with whom I had a complicated relationship; the imminent separation from my college-age daughter, who was my boon companion; therapy that took a wrong turn; a romance that went awry. (Much as we would like to explain clinical depression by making it either genetics or environment, bad wiring or bad nurturing, it is usually a combination of the two that sets the illness off.)

And yet I resisted my doctors’ suggestion that I check myself into a hospital. It seemed safer to stay where I was, no matter how out on a ledge I felt, than to lock myself away with other desperadoes in the hope that it would prove effective. Whatever fantasies I once harbored about the haven-like possibilities of a psychiatric facility or the promise of a definitive, once-and-for-all cure were shattered by my last stay 15 years earlier. I had written about the experience, musing on the gap between the alternately idealized and diabolical image of mental hospitals versus the more banal bureaucratic reality. I discussed the continued stigma attached to going public with the experience of depression, but all this had been expressed by the writer in me rather than the patient, and it seemed to me that part of the appeal of the article was the impression it gave that my hospital days were behind me. It would be a betrayal of my literary persona, if nothing else, to go back into a psychiatric unit.

What’s more, after a lifetime of talk therapy and medication that never seemed to do more than patch over the holes in my self, I wasn’t sure that I still believed in the concept of professional intervention. Indeed, I probably knew more about antidepressants than most analysts, having tried all three categories of psychotropics separately or in combination as they became available — the classic tricyclics, the now-unfashionable MAO inhibitors (which come with a major drawback in the form of dietary restrictions) as well as the newer S.S.R.I.’s. and S.N.R.I.’s. I was originally reluctant to try pills for something that seemed so intrinsic to who I was — the state of mind in which I lived, so to speak — until one of my first psychiatrists compared my emotional state to an ulcer. “You can’t speak to an ulcer,” he said. “You can’t reason with it. First you cure the ulcer, then you go on to talk about the way you feel.” My current regime of pills incorporated the latest approach, which called for the augmentation of a classic antidepressant (Effexor) with a small dose of a second-generation antipsychotic (Risperdal). From the time I was prescribed Prozac in my early 20s before it was approved by the Food and Drug Administration, you could say that the history of depression medication and my personal history came of age together, with me in the starring role of a lab rat.

Of course, none of the drugs work conclusively, and for now we are stuck with what comes down to a refined form of guesswork — 30-odd pills that operate in not completely understood ways on neural pathways, on serotonin, norepinephrine, dopamine and what have you. No one, not even the psychopharmacologists who dispense them after considering the odds, totally comprehends why they work when they work or why they don’t when they don’t. All the while the repercussions and the possible side effects (which include mild trembling on the one end to tardive dyskinesia, a rare condition that causes uncontrollable grimacing, on the other end) are shunted to the side until such time as they can no longer be ignored.

THE ONE THING PSYCHIATRIC hospitals are supposed to be good for is to keep you safe. But I was conflicted even about so primary an issue as survival. I wasn’t sure I wanted to ambush my own downward spiral, where the light at the end of the tunnel, as the mood-disordered Robert Lowell once said, was just the light of the oncoming train. I saw myself go splat on the pavement with a kind of equanimity, with a sense of a foretold conclusion. Self-inflicted death had always held out a stark allure for me: I was fascinated by people who had the temerity to bring down the curtain on their own suffering — who didn’t hang around, moping, in hopes of a brighter day. I knew all the arguments about the cowardice and selfishness (not to mention anger) involved in committing suicide, but nothing could persuade me that the act didn’t require a perverse sort of courage, some steely embrace of self-extinction. At one and the same time, I have also always believed that suicide victims don’t realize they won’t be coming this way again. If you are depressed enough, it seems to me, you begin to conceive of death as a cradle, rocking you gently back to a fresh life, glistening with newness, unsullied by you.

Still, one flesh-and-blood reality stood in my way: I had a daughter I loved deeply, and I understood the irreparable harm it would cause her if I took my own life, despite feeling that if I truly cared about her I would free her from the presence of a mother who was more shade than sun. (What had Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton done with their guilt feelings? I wondered. Were they more narcissistic than I or just more strong-willed?) It was because of my daughter, after all, that I had given voice to my “suicidal ideation,” as it’s called, in the first place, worrying how she would get along without me. At the same time, I recognized that, for a person who was really set on ending it all, speaking your intention aloud was an act of self-betrayal. After all, in the process of articulating your death wish you were alerting other people, ensuring that they would try to stop you.

The real question was why no one ever seemed to figure this grim scenario out on her own, just by looking at you. This was enraging in and of itself — the fact that severe depression, much as it might be treated as an illness, didn’t send out clear signals for others to pick up on; it did its deadly dismantling work under cover of normalcy. The psychological pain was agonizing, but there was no way of proving it, no bleeding wounds to point to. How much simpler it would be all around if you could put your mind in a cast, like a broken ankle, and elicit murmurings of sympathy from other people instead of skepticism (“You can’t really be feeling as bad as all that”) and in some cases outright hostility (“Maybe if you stopped thinking about yourself so much . . . ”).

One more factor worked to keep me where I was, exiled in my own apartment, a prisoner of my affliction: the specter of ECT (electro-convulsive therapy). My therapist, a modern Freudian analyst whom I had been seeing for years and who had always struck me as only vaguely persuaded of the efficacy of medication for what ailed me — when I once experienced some bad side effects, he proposed that I consider going off all my pills just to see how I would fare, and after doing so I plummeted — had suddenly, in the last 10 days before I went into the hospital, become a cheerleader for undergoing ECT. I don’t know why he grabbed on to this idea, why the sudden flip from chatting to zapping, other than for the fact that I had once wildly thrown it out — for the drowning, any life raft will do. Then, too, ECT, which causes the brain to go into seizure, was back in fashion for treatment-resistant depression after going off the radar in the ’60s and ’70s in the wake of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” Perhaps I had frightened him with my insistent talk of wanting to cut out for good; perhaps he didn’t want to be held responsible for the death of a patient who compulsively wrote about herself and would undoubtedly leave evidence that would tie him to her. But his shift from a psychoanalytic stance that focused on the subjective mind to a neurobiological stance that focused on the hypothesized workings of the physical brain left me scared and distrustful.

What if ECT would just leave me a stranger to myself, with chopped-up memories of my life before and immediately after? I may have hated my life, but I valued my memories — even the unhappy ones, paradoxical as that may seem. I lived for the details, and the writer I once was made vivid use of them. The cartoonish image of my head being fried, tiny shocks and whiffs of smoke coming off it as the electric current went through, haunted me even though I knew that ECT no longer was administered with convulsive force, jolting patients in their straps.

But in the end, no matter how much I wanted to stay put, I ran out of resistance. I spent the weekend before going into the hospital in my oldest sister’s apartment, lost in the Gothic kingdom of depression: I was unable to move from the bed, trapped in interior debates about jumping off a roof versus throwing myself in front of a car. Yet somewhere in the background were other voices — my sister’s, my doctors’ — arguing on behalf of my sticking around; I could half-hear them. I wanted to die, but at the same time I didn’t want to, not completely. Suicide could wait, my sister said. Why didn’t I give the hospital a chance? She relayed messages from each of my doctors that they would look out for me on the unit. No one would force me to do anything, including ECT. I felt too tired to argue.

THAT MONDAY MORNING, I returned home and packed up two small bags. I threw in a disproportionate number of books (especially given the fact that I couldn’t read), a couple of pairs of linen pants and cotton T-shirts, my favorite night cream (although I hadn’t touched it in weeks) and a photo of my daughter, the last with the thought of anchoring myself. In return for agreeing to undergo one of several available protocols — either switching my medication or availing myself of ECT — I would get to stay at 4 Center as long as I needed at no cost. My sister picked me up in a cab, and as I recall, I cried the whole ride up there, watching the passing view with an elegaic sense of leave-taking.

As soon as my sister gave my name to the nurse whose head appeared in the window of the locked door to the unit and we were both let in, I knew immediately that this wasn’t where I wanted to be. Everything seemed empty and silent under the fluorescent lighting except for one 40-ish man pacing up and down the hallway in a T-shirt and sweat pants, seemingly oblivious to what was going on around him. Underneath the kind of baldfaced clock you see in train stations were two run-down pay phones; there was something sad about the glaring outdatedness of them, especially since I associated them almost exclusively with hospitals and certain barren corners of Third Avenue. And then, in what seemed like an instant, my sister was saying goodbye, promising that all would turn out for the better, and I was left to fend for myself.

My bags were taken behind the glassed-in nurse’s station and checked for potential weapons of self-destruction referred to as “sharps” — razors, scissors, mirrors — which were taken away until your departure. Cellphones were also forbidden for reasons that seemed unclear even to the staff but had something to do with their photo-taking ability. In my intake interview, I alternated between breaking down in tears and repeating that I wanted to go home, like a woeful 7-year-old left behind at sleep-away camp. The admitting nurse, who was pleasant enough in a down-to-earth way, was hardly swept away by gusts of empathy with my bereft state. And yet I wanted to stay in the room and keep talking to her forever, if only to avoid going back out on to the unit, with its pathetically slim collection of out-of-date magazines, ugly groupings of wooden furniture cushioned with teal and plum vinyl and airless TV rooms — one overrun, the other desolate. Anything to avoid being me, feeling numb and desperate, thrust into a place that felt like the worst combination of exposure and anonymity.

I emerged in time for dinner, which was served at the premature hour of 5:30, as if the night ahead were so chockablock with activities that we had to get this necessary ritual out of the way. Since in reality dinner led to nothing more strenuous than another bout of “fresh air” and lots of free time until the lights went out at 11, I would have thought that it would be a good occasion to dally. But as it turned out, the other patients were finished eating within 10 or 15 minutes, and I found myself alone at the table, not yet having realized that the point was to get in and out as quickly as possible.

It didn’t help that the room we ate in was beyond dismal, featuring an out-of-tune piano and a Ping-Pong table that was never used. Or that, despite its being summer, there was barely any fresh fruit in sight except for autumnal apples and the occasional banana. There would be culinary bright moments — cream puffs were served on Father’s Day, and one Tuesday the staff set up a barbecue lunch in the patients’ park, where I munched on hot dogs and joined in a charadeslike game called Guesstures — but the general standard was determinedly low. After a while, I began requesting bottles of Ensure Plus, the liquid nutrition supplement that came in chocolate and vanilla and was a staple of the anorexics’ meal plans; if you closed your eyes it could pass for a milkshake.

It wasn’t only the anorexics’ Ensure that I coveted. From the very first night, when sounds of conversation and laughter floated over from their group to the gloomy, near-silent table of depressives I had joined, I yearned to be one of them. Unlike our group, they were required to remain at lunch and dinner for a full half-hour, which of necessity created a more congenial atmosphere. No matter that one or two had been brought on to the floor on stretchers, as I was later informed, or that they were victims of a cruel, hard-to-treat disease with sometimes fatal implications; they still struck me as enviable. However heartbreakingly scrawny, they were all young (in their mid-20s or early 30s) and expectant; they talked about boyfriends and concerned parents, worked tirelessly on their “journaling” or on art projects when they weren’t participating in activities designed exclusively for them, including “self-esteem” and “body image.” They were clearly and poignantly victims of a culture that said you were too fat if you weren’t too thin and had taken this message to heart. No one could blame them for their condition or view it as a moral failure, which was what I suspected even the nurses of doing about us depressed patients. In the eyes of the world, they were suffering from a disease, and we were suffering from being intractably and disconsolately — and some might say self-indulgently — ourselves.

I SHARED A SMALL ROOM right across from the nurse’s station with a pretty, middle-aged woman who introduced herself before dinner — the only one to do so — with a remarkable amount of good cheer, as if we were meeting at a cocktail party. For a minute I felt that things couldn’t be so terrible, that the unit couldn’t be as abject a destination as I conceived it to be if this woman had deigned to throw her lot in with the rest of us. She wore “Frownies” — little patented patches that were supposed to minimize wrinkles — to bed, which only furthered the impression she conveyed of an ordinary adjustment to what I saw as extraordinary circumstances. Clearly, she had a future in mind, even if I didn’t — one that required her to retain a fetching youthfulness. I hadn’t so much as washed my face for the past few months, but here was someone who understood the importance of keeping up appearances, even on a psychiatric unit.

The room itself, on the other hand, couldn’t have been less welcoming. Like the rest of the unit, it was lighted by overhead fluorescent bulbs that didn’t so much illuminate as bring things glaringly into view. There were two beds, two night tables and two chests of drawers. In keeping with the Noah’s-ark design ethos, the room was also furnished with a pair of enormous plastic trash cans; one stood near the door, casting a bleak plastic pall over things, and the other took up too much space in the tiny shared bathroom. The shower water came out of a flat fixture on the wall — the presence of a conventional shower head, I soon learned, was seen as a potential inducement to hanging yourself — and the weak flow was tepid at best.

I got into bed that first night, under the ratty white blanket, and tried to calm myself. The lack of a reading lamp added to my panic; even if my depression prevented me from losing myself in a book, the absence of a light source by which to read after dark represented the end of civilization as I had known it. (It turned out that you could bring in a battery-powered reading lamp of your own, albeit with the Kafkaesque restriction that it didn’t make use of glass light bulbs.) My mind went round and round the same barrage of questions, like a persistent police inspector. How did I get here? How did I allow myself to get here? Why didn’t I have the resolve to stay out? Why hadn’t anything changed with the passage of years? It was one thing to be depressed in your 20s or 30s, when the aspect of youth gave it an undeniable poignancy, a certain tattered charm; it was another thing entirely to be depressed in middle age, when you were supposed to have come to terms with life’s failings, as well as your own. Now that my mother was gone — I always thought she’d outlive me, but her lung cancer took precedence over my suicidal impulses — there was no one to blame for my depressions, no one to whom I could turn for some magical, longed-for compensation. But the truly intolerable part was that I had acquiesced in this godforsaken plan; there was ultimately no one to blame for my banishment to this remote-seeming outpost but myself.

I plumped the barracks-thin pillow, pulled up the sheet and blanket around me — the entire hospital was air-conditioned to a fine chill — and curled up, inviting sleep. There was nothing to feel so desperate about , I tried soothing myself. You’re not a prisoner. You can ask to leave tomorrow. I listened to my roommate’s calm, even breathing and wished I were her, wished I were anyone but myself. Mostly, I wished I were a person who wasn’t consumingly depressed. All over the city, less depressed or entirely undepressed people were leading their ordinary lives, watching TV or blogging or having a late dinner. Why wasn’t I among them? After staring into the darkness for what seemed like hours, I finally got up and put on my robe, having decided that I’d overcome my sense of being a specimen on display — here comes Mental Patient No. 12 — and approach the nurses’ station about getting more sleeping meds.

Outside the room the light was blinding. Two of the aides were at the desk, playing some sort of word game on the computer screen. They looked up at me impassively and waited for me to state my case. I explained that I couldn’t sleep, my voice sounding furry with anxiety. My hands were clammy and my mouth was dry. One of them got up and went into the back to check whether the resident in psychiatry who was assigned to me had approved the request. She handed me a pill in a little cup, and I mumbled something about how nervous I was feeling. “You’ll feel better after you get some sleep,” she said. I nodded and said, “Good night,” feeling dismissed. “Night,” she said, casual as could be. I was no one to her, no one to myself.

I SUPPOSE IT WOULD MAKE for some kind of symmetry — a glimpse of an upward trajectory, at least — if I said that the first night was the hardest, but the truth is that it never got any easier. My frantic sense of dislocation and abandonment persisted for the entire three weeks I spent on 4 Center, yielding only at rare moments to a slightly less anxious state of hibernation. I would eventually discover several friendlier nurses or nurses’ aides with whom it was possible to talk about the bizarre reality of being on a psychiatric unit with a locked door and fiercely regulated visiting hours (5:30 to 8 on weekday evenings and 2 to 8 on weekends) without feeling like an official mental patient. By the end of the second week, when I was no longer chained to the unit, one of the male nurses would invite me for coffee breaks to the little eatery on the sixth floor where the hospital staff repaired for their meals.

These outings were always kept short — we never lingered for more than 15 minutes — and they always brought home to me how artificial the dividing line between 4 Center and the outside world really was. It could cause vertigo if you weren’t careful. One minute you were in the shuttered-down universe of the verifiably unwell, of people who talked about their precarious inner states as if that were all that mattered, and the next you were admitted back into ordinary reality, where people were free to roam as they pleased and seemed filled with a sense of larger purpose. As I cradled my coffee, I looked on at the medical students who flitted in and out, holding their clipboards and notebooks, with a feeling verging on awe. How had they figured out a way to live without getting bogged down in the shadows? From what source did they draw all their energy? I couldn’t imagine ever joining this world again, given how my time had become so aimlessly filled, waiting for calls to come in on the pay phone or sitting in “community meetings,” in which people made forlorn and implausible requests for light-dimmers and hole-punchers and exiting patients tearfully thanked everyone on the unit for their help.

It wasn’t as if there weren’t attempts made to organize the days as they went sluggishly by. A weekly schedule was posted that gave the impression that we patients were quite the busy bees, what with therapy sessions, yoga, walks and creative-writing groups. Friday mornings featured my favorite group, “Coffee Klatch.” This was run by the same amiable gym-coach-like woman who oversaw exercise, and it was devoted to board games of the Trivial Pursuit variety. The real draw was the promise of baked goods and freshly brewed coffee.

But in truth there was more uncharted time than not, especially for the depressives — great swaths of white space that wrapped themselves around the day, creating an undertow of lassitude. Forging friendships on the unit, which would have passed the time, was touch-and-go because patients came and went and the only real link was one of duress. The other restriction came with the territory: people were either comfortably settled into being on the unit, which was off-putting in one kind of way, or raring to get out, which was off-putting in another. I had become attached to my roommate, who was funny and somehow seemed above the fray, and I felt inordinately sad when she left, in possession of a new diagnosis and new medication, halfway into my stay.

Still, the consuming issue as far as I was concerned — the question that colored my entire stay — was whether I would undergo ECT. It was on my mind from the very beginning, if only because the first patient I encountered when I entered the unit, pacing up and down the halls, was in the midst of getting a series of ECT treatments and insisted loudly to anyone who would listen that they were destroying his brain. And indeed, the patients I saw returning from ECT acted dazed, as if an essential piece of themselves had been misplaced.

During the first week or so the subject lay mostly in abeyance as I was weaned off the medications I came in on and tried to acclimatize to life on 4 Center. I met daily with Dr. R., the young resident I saw the first evening, mostly to discuss why I shouldn’t leave right away and what other avenues might be explored medicationwise. She sported a diamond engagement ring and a diamond wedding band that my eye always went to first thing; I took them as painful reminders that not everyone was as full of holes as I was, that she had made sparkling choices and might indeed turn out to be one of those put-together young women who had it all — the career, the husband, the children. During our half-hour sessions I tried to borrow from Dr. R.’s outlook, to see myself through her charitable eyes. I reminded myself that people found me interesting even if I had ceased to interest myself, and that the way I felt wasn’t all my fault. But the reprieve was always short-lived, and within an hour of her departure I was back to staving off despair, doing battle with the usual furies.

One day early into my second week, I was called out of a therapy session to meet with a psychiatrist from the ECT unit. I still wonder whether this brief encounter was the defining one, scaring me off forever. She might as well have been a prison warden for all her interpersonal skills; we had barely said two words before she announced I was showing clear signs of being in a “neurovegetative” condition. She pointed out that I spoke slurringly and that my mind seemed to be crawling along as well, adding grimly that I would never be able to write again if I remained in this state. Her scrutiny seemed merciless: I felt attacked, as if there were nothing left of me but my illness. Obviously ECT was in order, she briskly concluded. I nodded, afraid to say much lest I sound imbecilic, but in my head the alarms were going off. No, it wasn’t, I thought. Not yet. I’m not quite the pushover you take me to be. It was the first stirring of positive will on my own behalf, a delicate green bud that could easily be crushed, but I felt its force.

The strongest and most benign advocate for ECT was a psychiatrist at the institute who saw me three decades earlier and was instrumental in convincing me to come into 4 Center. In his formal but well-meaning way he pointed out that I lived with a level of depression that was unnecessary to live with and that my best shot for real relief was ECT. He came in to make his case once again as I was sitting at dinner on a Friday evening, pretending to nibble at a rubbery piece of chicken. The other patients had gone and my sister was visiting. I turned to her as he waxed almost passionate on my account, going on about the horror of my kind of treatment-resistant depression and the glorious benefits of ECT that would surely outweigh any downside. I didn’t trust him, much as I wished to. Help me, I implored my sister without saying a word. I don’t want this. Tears trickled down my cheeks as if I were a mute, wordless but still able to feel anguish. My sister spoke for me as if she were an interpreter of silence. It looked like I didn’t want it, she said to the doctor, and my wishes had to be respected.

I COULD SEE MYSELF LINGERING on in the hospital, not because I had grown any more fond of the atmosphere but because after a certain amount of time it became easier to stay than to leave. The picayune details of my life — bills, appointments, deadlines — had been suspended during my last few months at home, then left outside the hospital confines altogether, and it began to seem inconceivable that I’d ever have the wherewithal to take them on again. Instead of growing stronger on the unit, I felt a kind of further weakening of my psychological muscle. The new medication I was on left me exhausted, and I took to going back to sleep after breakfast. I was tired even of being visited, of sitting in the hideous little lounge and making conversation, of expressing gratitude for the chocolates, smoked salmon and change for the pay phones that people brought. I felt as if I were being wished bon voyage over and over again, perennially about to leave on a trip that never happened.

I went out on several day passes in the week leading to my departure, as a kind of preparation for re-entry, but none of them were particularly successful. On one, I went out on a broiling Saturday afternoon with my daughter for a walk to the nearby Starbucks on 168th and Broadway. I felt thick-headed with the new sedating medication I was on and far away from her. When she left me for a minute to make a phone call on her cell, I started crying, as if something tragic had happened. I wondered uneasily what effect seeing me in this state was having on my daughter, what she made of my being in the hospital — did she view me as a burden that she would need to shoulder for the rest of her life? Would my depression rub off on her? — but in between we laughed at small, odd things as we always did, and it occurred to me that I wasn’t as much a stranger to her as I was to myself.

With the staff’s tentative agreement — they didn’t think I was ready to go home but had no real reason to prevent me from doing so — I left 4 Center three weeks to the day I arrived, my belongings piled up on a trolley for greater mobility through the annex to the exit. It was a hot June day similar to the one I checked in on, the heat pouring off the windows of parked cars. Everything felt noisy and magnified. It felt shocking to be outside, knowing I was on a permanent pass this time, that I wouldn’t be returning to the unit.

I was sent home on Klonopin, an anti-anxiety drug I’d been on forever, as well as a duet of pills — Remeron and Effexor — that were referred to as California rocket fuel for its presumed igniting effect. As it turned out, the combo wasn’t destined to work on me. At home, I was gripped again by thoughts of suicide and clung to my bed, afraid to go out even on a walk around the block with my daughter. When I wasn’t asleep, I stared into space, lost in the terrors of the far-off past, which had become the terrors of the present. It was decided that I shouldn’t be left alone, so my sister and my good friend took turns staying with me. But it was clear this arrangement was short term, and by the end of the weekend, after phone calls to various doctors, it was agreed that I would go back into the hospital to try ECT.

And then, the Sunday afternoon before I planned to return to 4 Center, something shifted ever so slightly in my mind. I had gone off the Remeron and started a new drug, Abilify. I was feeling a bit calmer, and my bedroom didn’t seem like such an alien place anymore. Maybe it was the fear of ECT, or perhaps the tweaked medication had kicked in, or maybe the depression had finally taken its course and was beginning to lift. I had — and still have — no real idea what did it. For a brief interval, no one was home, and I decided to get up and go outside. I stopped at Food Emporium and studied the cereal section, as amazed at the array as if I had just emerged from the gulag. I bought some paper towels and strawberries, and then I walked home and got back into bed. It wasn’t a trip to the Yucatan, but it was a start. I didn’t check into the hospital the next day and instead passed the rest of the summer slowly reinhabiting my life, coaxing myself along. I spent time with people I trusted, with whom I didn’t have to pretend.

Toward the end of August I went out for a few days to the rented Southampton house of my friend Elizabeth. It was just her, me and her three annoying dogs. I had brought a novel along, “The Gathering,” by Anne Enright, the sort of book about incomplete people and unhappy families that has always spoken to me. It was the first book to absorb me — the first I could read at all — since before I went into the hospital. I came to the last page on the third afternoon of my visit. It was about 4:30, the time of day that, by mid-August, brings with it a whiff of summer’s end. I looked up into the startlingly blue sky; one of the dogs was sitting at my side, her warm body against my leg, drying me off after the swim I had recently taken. I could begin to see the curve of fall up ahead. There would be new books to read, new films to see and new restaurants to try. I envisioned myself writing again, and it didn’t seem like a totally preposterous idea. I had things I wanted to say.

Everything felt fragile and freshly come upon, but for now, at least, my depression had stepped back, giving me room to move forward. I had forgotten what it was like to be without it, and for a moment I floundered, wondering how I would recognize myself. I knew for certain it would return, sneaking up on me when I wasn’t looking, but meanwhile there were bound to be glimpses of light if only I stayed around and held fast to the long perspective. It was a chance that seemed worth taking.

Daphne Merkin is a contributing writer for the magazine. Her last article was about the Kabbalah Center.

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Let’s Talk About Depression: A Personal Narrative .

Trigger warning: references to depression, suicide and self-harm .

It was an exciting vacation until I woke up in the ICU in a hospital in Nasik. I was told I met with an almost fatal accident. The driver died on the spot but I did not come to know until a few months had elapsed. I underwent multiple surgeries and my head had to be tonsured. My otherwise clear face bore deep scars and stitch marks. My spleen had to be removed, which resulted in a long scar on my stomach that will neither fade nor vanish. I got the best medical care and I constantly reminded myself that it could have been worse.

For almost six months, I had family, friends and everyone visiting. But as time passed, I felt something was not right with me. I started feeling lonely and disconnected from everyone. I hated the scars and marks and felt dejected. Every time I looked at my tonsured head, my eyes would well up, despite consoling myself for not liking the way I felt and I looked. It took me a great deal of patience to accept what had happened.

But the demons in my head had already started enjoying themselves at my expense. I started getting sleepless nights. I lost interest in everything. All I wanted to do was sit in a dark room. My energy levels depleted at an alarming rate. All I wanted to do was just lie in bed and avoid any kind of contact with the outside world. I would not want to eat anything. My taste buds seemed to have died. No matter what I ate, I would feel as if my taste buds have gone numb. I no longer enjoyed eating.

The more I read about depression, the more I realised that it is treatable and can be cured with timely and effective intervention.

I started getting thoughts of suicide and self-harm. I had a strong urge to jump off from the terrace. My coping mechanism shut down. I stopped relating to anything. The worst part was the absence of feelings. I neither felt happy nor sad. I stopped aspiring.  I stopped learning and growing. Initially, I thought I was being lazy. But things only started getting worse. I knew I had to take help because it was getting pretty bad and living in self-denial mode wasn’t helping me at all. I realised that mental health issues are like any other disease that can be cured with intervention. So one day I took an online test on mental health and even visited a shrink. Both spelt out DEPRESSION.

I couldn’t believe that a livewire like me could be depressed. I started questioning myself. What was I depressed about? What was bothering me and what could I do to help myself? I could not find concrete answers. The shrink put me on medication and it helped me to at least sleep at night. I have always been anti-medicine and paranoid about side effects, so I stopped it mid-way and told myself that I would deal with it myself. I started reading about depression. I started talking about depression and I realised that depression is more common than we think.

According to the World Health Organisation, “Globally, depression is the top cause of illness and disability among young and middle-aged populations. India is home to an estimated 57 million people affected by depression. Interestingly, a higher prevalence of depression among women and working-age adults (20-69 years) have been consistently reported by Indian studies.”

The more I read about depression, the more I realised that it is treatable and can be cured with timely and effective intervention. I was determined to help myself and others, especially women. I had created a Whatsapp group and I named it ‘Let’s Talk’. I had started the group before my accident. I added a few of my friends to the group and encouraged them to talk and share.

India is the country with the most depression cases in the world, according to the World Health Organisation, followed by China and the USA.

Coincidentally, Depression – Let’s Talk was the slogan for World Health Day 2017.  2017 was the darkest year for me as I was trying to get back on my feet after my accident in November 2016. I was determined to at least start talking about depression. I started telling women that talking to each other would be more helpful than talking about each other. I wanted to form a support group and help as many people as I could.

But sadly, most people live in self-denial and some of them would not take depression seriously. It was only when I talked in private to people, I realised that the monster called depression was for real and it could affect a man, woman or a child. India is the country with the most depression cases in the world, according to the World Health Organisation, followed by China and the USA. All the more reason to ACT now!

In my case, writing and talking is helpful. I have my rough days and a part of me is still to come to terms with the post-traumatic stress disorder.  But I want to tell everyone that we need to be heard without judgement or criticism. I always encourage people to talk and open up as I feel that is the first step. We heal the moment we are heard.

Also Read:  The Yellow Wallpaper Review: When Medical Science Failed Women

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Telling the Story of Yourself: 6 Steps to Writing Personal Narratives

Jennifer Xue

Table of Contents

Why do we write personal narratives, 6 guidelines for writing personal narrative essays, inspiring personal narratives, examples of personal narrative essays, tell your story.

First off, you might be wondering: what is a personal narrative? In short, personal narratives are stories we tell about ourselves that focus on our growth, lessons learned, and reflections on our experiences.

From stories about inspirational figures we heard as children to any essay, article, or exercise where we're asked to express opinions on a situation, thing, or individual—personal narratives are everywhere.

According to Psychology Today, personal narratives allow authors to feel and release pains, while savouring moments of strength and resilience. Such emotions provide an avenue for both authors and readers to connect while supporting healing in the process.

That all sounds great. But when it comes to putting the words down on paper, we often end up with a list of experiences and no real structure to tie them together.

In this article, we'll discuss what a personal narrative essay is further, learn the 6 steps to writing one, and look at some examples of great personal narratives.

As readers, we're fascinated by memoirs, autobiographies, and long-form personal narrative articles, as they provide a glimpse into the authors' thought processes, ideas, and feelings. But you don't have to be writing your whole life story to create a personal narrative.

You might be a student writing an admissions essay , or be trying to tell your professional story in a cover letter. Regardless of your purpose, your narrative will focus on personal growth, reflections, and lessons.

Personal narratives help us connect with other people's stories due to their easy-to-digest format and because humans are empathising creatures.

We can better understand how others feel and think when we were told stories that allow us to see the world from their perspectives. The author's "I think" and "I feel" instantaneously become ours, as the brain doesn't know whether what we read is real or imaginary.

In her best-selling book Wired for Story, Lisa Cron explains that the human brain craves tales as it's hard-wired through evolution to learn what happens next. Since the brain doesn't know whether what you are reading is actual or not, we can register the moral of the story cognitively and affectively.

In academia, a narrative essay tells a story which is experiential, anecdotal, or personal. It allows the author to creatively express their thoughts, feelings, ideas, and opinions. Its length can be anywhere from a few paragraphs to hundreds of pages.

Outside of academia, personal narratives are known as a form of journalism or non-fiction works called "narrative journalism." Even highly prestigious publications like the New York Times and Time magazine have sections dedicated to personal narratives. The New Yorke is a magazine dedicated solely to this genre.

The New York Times holds personal narrative essay contests. The winners are selected because they:

had a clear narrative arc with a conflict and a main character who changed in some way. They artfully balanced the action of the story with reflection on what it meant to the writer. They took risks, like including dialogue or playing with punctuation, sentence structure and word choice to develop a strong voice. And, perhaps most important, they focused on a specific moment or theme – a conversation, a trip to the mall, a speech tournament, a hospital visit – instead of trying to sum up the writer’s life in 600 words.

In a nutshell, a personal narrative can cover any reflective and contemplative subject with a strong voice and a unique perspective, including uncommon private values. It's written in first person and the story encompasses a specific moment in time worthy of a discussion.

Writing a personal narrative essay involves both objectivity and subjectivity. You'll need to be objective enough to recognise the importance of an event or a situation to explore and write about. On the other hand, you must be subjective enough to inject private thoughts and feelings to make your point.

With personal narratives, you are both the muse and the creator – you have control over how your story is told. However, like any other type of writing, it comes with guidelines.

1. Write Your Personal Narrative as a Story

As a story, it must include an introduction, characters, plot, setting, climax, anti-climax (if any), and conclusion. Another way to approach it is by structuring it with an introduction, body, and conclusion. The introduction should set the tone, while the body should focus on the key point(s) you want to get across. The conclusion can tell the reader what lessons you have learned from the story you've just told.

2. Give Your Personal Narrative a Clear Purpose

Your narrative essay should reflect your unique perspective on life. This is a lot harder than it sounds. You need to establish your perspective, the key things you want your reader to take away, and your tone of voice. It's a good idea to have a set purpose in mind for the narrative before you start writing.

Let's say you want to write about how you manage depression without taking any medicine. This could go in any number of ways, but isolating a purpose will help you focus your writing and choose which stories to tell. Are you advocating for a holistic approach, or do you want to describe your emotional experience for people thinking of trying it?

Having this focus will allow you to put your own unique take on what you did (and didn't do, if applicable), what changed you, and the lessons learned along the way.

3. Show, Don't Tell

It's a narration, so the narrative should show readers what happened, instead of telling them. As well as being a storyteller, the author should take part as one of the characters. Keep this in mind when writing, as the way you shape your perspective can have a big impact on how your reader sees your overarching plot. Don't slip into just explaining everything that happened because it happened to you. Show your reader with action.

You can check for instances of telling rather than showing with ProWritingAid. For example, instead of:

"You never let me do anything!" I cried disdainfully.

"You never let me do anything!" To this day, my mother swears that the glare I levelled at her as I spat those words out could have soured milk.

Using ProWritingAid will help you find these instances in your manuscript and edit them without spending hours trawling through your work yourself.

4. Use "I," But Don't Overuse It

You, the author, take ownership of the story, so the first person pronoun "I" is used throughout. However, you shouldn't overuse it, as it'd make it sound too self-centred and redundant.

ProWritingAid can also help you here – the Style Report will tell you if you've started too many sentences with "I", and show you how to introduce more variation in your writing.

5. Pay Attention to Tenses

Tense is key to understanding. Personal narratives mostly tell the story of events that happened in the past, so many authors choose to use the past tense. This helps separate out your current, narrating voice and your past self who you are narrating. If you're writing in the present tense, make sure that you keep it consistent throughout.

6. Make Your Conclusion Satisfying

Satisfy your readers by giving them an unforgettable closing scene. The body of the narration should build up the plot to climax. This doesn't have to be something incredible or shocking, just something that helps give an interesting take on your story.

The takeaways or the lessons learned should be written without lecturing. Whenever possible, continue to show rather than tell. Don't say what you learned, narrate what you do differently now. This will help the moral of your story shine through without being too preachy.

GoodReads is a great starting point for selecting read-worthy personal narrative books. Here are five of my favourites.

Owl Moon by Jane Yolen

Jane Yolen, the author of 386 books, wrote this poetic story about a daughter and her father who went owling. Instead of learning about owls, Yolen invites readers to contemplate the meaning of gentleness and hope.

Night by Elie Wiesel

Elie Wiesel was a teenager when he and his family were sent to Auschwitz concentration camp in 1944. This Holocaust memoir has a strong message that such horrific events should never be repeated.

The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank

This classic is a must-read by young and old alike. It's a remarkable diary by a 13-year-old Jewish girl who hid inside a secret annexe of an old building during the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands in 1942.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion

This is a personal narrative written by a brave author renowned for her clarity, passion, and honesty. Didion shares how in December 2003, she lost her husband of 40 years to a massive heart attack and dealt with the acute illness of her only daughter. She speaks about grief, memories, illness, and hope.

Educated by Tara Westover

Author Tara Westover was raised by survivalist parents. She didn't go to school until 17 years of age, which later took her to Harvard and Cambridge. It's a story about the struggle for quest for knowledge and self-reinvention.

Narrative and personal narrative journalism are gaining more popularity these days. You can find distinguished personal narratives all over the web.

Curating the best of the best of personal narratives and narrative essays from all over the web. Some are award-winning articles.

Narratively

Long-form writing to celebrate humanity through storytelling. It publishes personal narrative essays written to provoke, inspire, and reflect, touching lesser-known and overlooked subjects.

Narrative Magazine

It publishes non,fiction narratives, poetry, and fiction. Among its contributors is Frank Conroy, the author of Stop-Time , a memoir that has never been out of print since 1967.

Thought Catalog

Aimed at Generation Z, it publishes personal narrative essays on self-improvement, family, friendship, romance, and others.

Personal narratives will continue to be popular as our brains are wired for stories. We love reading about others and telling stories of ourselves, as they bring satisfaction and a better understanding of the world around us.

Personal narratives make us better humans. Enjoy telling yours!

Write like a bestselling author

Love writing? ProWritingAid will help you improve the style, strength, and clarity of your stories.

Jennifer Xue is an award-winning e-book author with 2,500+ articles and 100+ e-books/reports published under her belt. She also taught 50+ college-level essay and paper writing classes. Her byline has appeared in Forbes, Fortune, Cosmopolitan, Esquire, Business.com, Business2Community, Addicted2Success, Good Men Project, and others. Her blog is JenniferXue.com. Follow her on Twitter @jenxuewrites].

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Home — Essay Samples — Nursing & Health — Psychiatry & Mental Health — Depression

Essays About Depression

Depression essay topic examples.

Explore topics like the impact of stigma on depression, compare it across age groups or in literature and media, describe the emotional journey of depression, discuss how education can help, and share personal stories related to it. These essay ideas offer a broad perspective on depression, making it easier to understand and engage with this important subject.

Argumentative Essays

Argumentative essays require you to analyze and present arguments related to depression. Here are some topic examples:

• 1. Argue whether mental health stigma contributes to the prevalence of depression in society.
• 2. Analyze the effectiveness of different treatment approaches for depression, such as therapy versus medication.

Example Introduction Paragraph for an Argumentative Essay: Depression is a pervasive mental health issue that affects millions of individuals worldwide. This essay delves into the complex relationship between mental health stigma and the prevalence of depression in society, examining the barriers to seeking help and the consequences of this stigma.

Example Conclusion Paragraph for an Argumentative Essay: In conclusion, the analysis of mental health stigma's impact on depression underscores the urgent need to challenge and dismantle the stereotypes surrounding mental health. As we reflect on the far-reaching consequences of stigma, we are called to create a society that fosters empathy, understanding, and open dialogue about mental health.

Compare and Contrast Essays

Compare and contrast essays enable you to examine similarities and differences within the context of depression. Consider these topics:

• 1. Compare and contrast the symptoms and risk factors of depression in adolescents and adults.
• 2. Analyze the similarities and differences between the portrayal of depression in literature and its depiction in modern media.

Example Introduction Paragraph for a Compare and Contrast Essay: Depression manifests differently in various age groups and mediums of expression. This essay embarks on a journey to compare and contrast the symptoms and risk factors of depression in adolescents and adults, shedding light on the unique challenges faced by each demographic.

Example Conclusion Paragraph for a Compare and Contrast Essay: In conclusion, the comparison and contrast of depression in adolescents and adults highlight the importance of tailored interventions and support systems. As we contemplate the distinct challenges faced by these age groups, we are reminded of the need for age-appropriate mental health resources and strategies.

Descriptive Essays

Descriptive essays allow you to vividly depict aspects of depression, whether it's the experience of the individual or the societal impact. Here are some topic ideas:

• 1. Describe the emotional rollercoaster of living with depression, highlighting the highs and lows of the experience.
• 2. Paint a detailed portrait of the consequences of untreated depression on an individual's personal and professional life.

Example Introduction Paragraph for a Descriptive Essay: Depression is a complex emotional journey that defies easy characterization. This essay embarks on a descriptive exploration of the emotional rollercoaster that individuals with depression experience, delving into the profound impact it has on their daily lives.

Example Conclusion Paragraph for a Descriptive Essay: In conclusion, the descriptive portrayal of the emotional rollercoaster of depression underscores the need for empathy and support for those grappling with this condition. Through this exploration, we are reminded of the resilience of the human spirit and the importance of compassionate understanding.

Persuasive Essays

Persuasive essays involve arguing a point of view related to depression. Consider these persuasive topics:

• 1. Persuade your readers that incorporating mental health education into the school curriculum can reduce the prevalence of depression among students.
• 2. Argue for or against the idea that employers should prioritize the mental well-being of their employees to combat workplace depression.

Example Introduction Paragraph for a Persuasive Essay: The prevalence of depression underscores the urgent need for proactive measures to address mental health. This persuasive essay asserts that integrating mental health education into the school curriculum can significantly reduce the prevalence of depression among students, offering them the tools to navigate emotional challenges.

Example Conclusion Paragraph for a Persuasive Essay: In conclusion, the persuasive argument for mental health education in schools highlights the potential for early intervention and prevention. As we consider the well-being of future generations, we are called to prioritize mental health education as an essential component of a holistic education system.

Narrative Essays

Narrative essays offer you the opportunity to tell a story or share personal experiences related to depression. Explore these narrative essay topics:

• 1. Narrate a personal experience of overcoming depression or supporting a loved one through their journey.
• 2. Imagine yourself in a fictional scenario where you advocate for mental health awareness and destigmatization on a global scale.

Example Introduction Paragraph for a Narrative Essay: Personal experiences with depression can be transformative and enlightening. This narrative essay delves into a personal journey of overcoming depression, highlighting the challenges faced, the support received, and the lessons learned along the way.

Example Conclusion Paragraph for a Narrative Essay: In conclusion, the narrative of my personal journey through depression reminds us of the resilience of the human spirit and the power of compassion and understanding. As we reflect on our own experiences, we are encouraged to share our stories and contribute to the ongoing conversation about mental health.

Critical Appraisal of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy in Treating Depression

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Depression, known as major depressive disorder or clinical depression, is a psychological condition characterized by enduring feelings of sadness and a significant loss of interest in activities. It is a mood disorder that affects a person's emotional state, thoughts, behaviors, and overall well-being.

Its origin can be traced back to ancient civilizations, where melancholia was described as a state of sadness and melancholy. In the 19th century, depression began to be studied more systematically, and terms such as "melancholic depression" and "nervous breakdown" emerged. The understanding and classification of depression have evolved over time. In the early 20th century, Sigmund Freud and other psychoanalysts explored the role of unconscious conflicts in the development of depression. In the mid-20th century, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) was established, providing a standardized criteria for diagnosing depressive disorders.

Biological Factors: Genetic predisposition plays a role in depression, as individuals with a family history of the disorder are at a higher risk. Psychological Factors: These may include a history of trauma or abuse, low self-esteem, pessimistic thinking patterns, and a tendency to ruminate on negative thoughts. Environmental Factors: Adverse life events, such as the loss of a loved one, financial difficulties, relationship problems, or chronic stress, can increase the risk of depression. Additionally, living in a socioeconomically disadvantaged area or lacking access to social support can be contributing factors. Health-related Factors: Chronic illnesses, such as cardiovascular disease, diabetes, and chronic pain, are associated with a higher risk of depression. Substance abuse and certain medications can also increase vulnerability to depression. Developmental Factors: Certain life stages, including adolescence and the postpartum period, bring about unique challenges and changes that can contribute to the development of depression.

Depression is characterized by a range of symptoms that affect an individual's emotional, cognitive, and physical well-being. These characteristics can vary in intensity and duration but generally include persistent feelings of sadness, hopelessness, and a loss of interest or pleasure in activities once enjoyed. One prominent characteristic of depression is a noticeable change in mood, which can manifest as a constant feeling of sadness or emptiness. Individuals may also experience a significant decrease or increase in appetite, leading to weight loss or gain. Sleep disturbances, such as insomnia or excessive sleepiness, are common as well. Depression can impact cognitive functioning, causing difficulties in concentration, decision-making, and memory recall. Negative thoughts, self-criticism, and feelings of guilt or worthlessness are also common cognitive symptoms. Furthermore, physical symptoms may arise, including fatigue, low energy levels, and a general lack of motivation. Physical aches and pains, without an apparent medical cause, may also be present.

The treatment of depression typically involves a comprehensive approach that addresses both the physical and psychological aspects of the condition. It is important to note that the most effective treatment may vary for each individual, and a personalized approach is often necessary. One common form of treatment is psychotherapy, which involves talking to a mental health professional to explore and address the underlying causes and triggers of depression. Cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT) is a widely used approach that helps individuals identify and change negative thought patterns and behaviors associated with depression. In some cases, medication may be prescribed to help manage depressive symptoms. Antidepressant medications work by balancing neurotransmitters in the brain that are associated with mood regulation. It is crucial to work closely with a healthcare provider to find the right medication and dosage that suits an individual's needs. Additionally, lifestyle changes can play a significant role in managing depression. Regular exercise, a balanced diet, sufficient sleep, and stress reduction techniques can all contribute to improving mood and overall well-being. In severe cases of depression, when other treatments have not been effective, electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) may be considered. ECT involves administering controlled electric currents to the brain to induce a brief seizure, which can have a positive impact on depressive symptoms.

1. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), over 264 million people worldwide suffer from depression, making it one of the leading causes of disability globally. 2. Depression can affect people of all ages, including children and adolescents. In fact, the prevalence of depression in young people is increasing, with an estimated 3.3 million adolescents in the United States experiencing at least one major depressive episode in a year. 3. Research has shown that there is a strong link between depression and other physical health conditions. People with depression are more likely to experience chronic pain, cardiovascular diseases, and autoimmune disorders, among other medical conditions.

The topic of depression holds immense significance and should be explored through essays due to its widespread impact on individuals and society as a whole. Understanding and raising awareness about depression is crucial for several reasons. Firstly, depression affects a significant portion of the global population, making it a pressing public health issue. Exploring its causes, symptoms, and treatment options can contribute to better mental health outcomes and improved quality of life for individuals affected by this condition. Additionally, writing an essay about depression can help combat the stigma surrounding mental health. By promoting open discussions and providing accurate information, essays can challenge misconceptions and foster empathy and support for those experiencing depression. Furthermore, studying depression allows for a deeper examination of its complex nature, including its psychological, biological, and sociocultural factors. Lastly, essays on depression can highlight the importance of early detection and intervention, promoting timely help-seeking behaviors and reducing the burden of the condition on individuals and healthcare systems. By shedding light on this critical topic, essays have the potential to educate, inspire action, and contribute to the overall well-being of individuals and society.

1. American Psychiatric Association. (2013). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (5th ed.). American Psychiatric Publishing. 2. World Health Organization. (2017). Depression and other common mental disorders: Global health estimates. World Health Organization. 3. Kessler, R. C., Bromet, E. J., & Quinlan, J. (2013). The burden of mental disorders: Global perspectives from the WHO World Mental Health Surveys. Cambridge University Press. 4. Beck, A. T., Rush, A. J., Shaw, B. F., & Emery, G. (1979). Cognitive therapy of depression. Guilford Press. 5. Nierenberg, A. A., & DeCecco, L. M. (2001). Definitions and diagnosis of depression. The Journal of Clinical Psychiatry, 62(Suppl 22), 5-9. 6. Greenberg, P. E., Fournier, A. A., Sisitsky, T., Pike, C. T., & Kessler, R. C. (2015). The economic burden of adults with major depressive disorder in the United States (2005 and 2010). Journal of Clinical Psychiatry, 76(2), 155-162. 7. Cuijpers, P., Berking, M., Andersson, G., Quigley, L., Kleiboer, A., & Dobson, K. S. (2013). A meta-analysis of cognitive-behavioural therapy for adult depression, alone and in comparison with other treatments. Canadian Journal of Psychiatry, 58(7), 376-385. 8. Hirschfeld, R. M. A. (2014). The comorbidity of major depression and anxiety disorders: Recognition and management in primary care. Primary Care Companion for CNS Disorders, 16(2), PCC.13r01611. 9. Rush, A. J., Trivedi, M. H., Wisniewski, S. R., Nierenberg, A. A., Stewart, J. W., Warden, D., ... & Fava, M. (2006). Acute and longer-term outcomes in depressed outpatients requiring one or several treatment steps: A STAR*D report. American Journal of Psychiatry, 163(11), 1905-1917. 10. Kendler, K. S., Kessler, R. C., Walters, E. E., MacLean, C., Neale, M. C., Heath, A. C., & Eaves, L. J. (1995). Stressful life events, genetic liability, and onset of an episode of major depression in women. American Journal of Psychiatry, 152(6), 833-842.

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I Have Depression, and I'm Proof That You Never Know the Battle Someone Is Waging Inside

I never thought I'd live to be 26 years old. You may be wondering why someone who seems perfectly healthy would have such a dark thought , and you would not be alone. But I'm proud to say that turning 26 has been one of the greatest accomplishments of my life.

If you checked my Instagram over the last few years, you would have seen me as the happiest girl in the world , traveling the globe teaching yoga and weightlifting. But keeping up that image grew exhausting, so I decided to be brave and tell my story. My story is not unique, but it's one that is rarely spoken about due to fear. Fear can be a crippling emotion, but it can also be a powerful tool.

Depression and anxiety are just like any other illness. They're nothing to hide away.

So I'm going to ask something scary: do the words "mental health" make you uncomfortable? They used to make me feel that way, too. But depression and anxiety are just like any other illness. They're nothing to hide away. In fact, these journeys should be shared and celebrated.

I have had anxiety for as long as I can remember. Growing up, it impacted every part of life. I would have panic attacks before going to school, sleepless nights before games or tests, endless thoughts of everyone being against me, and days where I felt completely alone in the world. In college, things got worse. I became extremely depressed. I partied every chance I got. I hung out with people who fed the worst parts of me. I protected myself by flashing a big smile and playing the part of the bubbly sorority girl. I told myself that depression is scary and no one wants to hear about that .

Keep it hidden and keep smiling.

A few years later, at the age of 20, my smile had fallen and I had given up. The thought of waking up the next morning was too much for me to handle. I was no longer anxious or sad; instead I felt numb, and that's when things took a turn for the worse. I called my dad, who lived across the country, and for the first time in my life, I told him everything. It was too late, though. I was not calling for help. I was calling to say goodbye.

Miraculously, he convinced me to hang on for a few more hours. Had he not boarded the very next flight to me, I would not be here right now.

That is when I started my long and continuous journey to get healthy. I worked with doctors and therapists , but I still struggled. Until one day my dad took me to a CrossFit gym by my school and for the first time I picked up a barbell. It instantly became my place to escape, my outlet, my medicine . I did not go more than a day without having a bar in my hand, but weightlifting and fitness were not enough alone.

After a year or so, the depression crept back in. I channeled the inner strength I had built in the gym and asked for help. This is when I began working with a new therapist, one who believed that depression decreased by age 26. I have no idea if this is true, but in yoga, you're taught not to ask if the thought is true, but rather if the thought serves you. So I hung onto this. When I fell into a really bad spell, I reminded myself, "Just a few more years. Hang on until you are 26. It will get better."

I kept lifting. I kept working. I kept growing.

As an Olympic weightlifting coach and yoga teacher, people tell me all the time how strong I am, which used to make me feel like a total fraud. But today, I am 26 years old. Today, I'm proudly sharing something I felt so ashamed of for so many years , and that's because I'm strong. I have a strength that this illness will never be able to match, not at 26 or any age after that.

The charity Project Semicolon is close to my heart. The idea behind it : "a semicolon represents a sentence an author could have ended, but chose not to." My story isn't over, and each chapter is a lot brighter, a lot bolder, and filled with a lot of fun new characters. There's always more to come. We just need to continue writing.

If you or a loved one are in need of any help, the National Suicide Prevention organization has several resources and a 24/7 lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

• Healthy Living
• Personal Essay

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My battle with depression and the two things it taught me

I’ve spent a decade slipping in and out of depression, but thanks to the right medicine and loving people, I’m back to being me again

I t’s often said that depression isn’t about feeling sad. It’s part of it, of course, but to compare the life-sapping melancholy of depression to normal sadness is like comparing a paper cut to an amputation. Sadness is a healthy part of every life. Depression progressively eats away your whole being from the inside. It’s with you when you wake up in the morning, telling you there’s nothing or anyone to get up for. It’s with you when the phone rings and you’re too frightened to answer it.

It’s with you when you look into the eyes of those you love, and your eyes prick with tears as you try, and fail, to remember how to love them. It’s with you as you search within for those now eroded things that once made you who you were: your interests, your creativity, your inquisitiveness, your humour, your warmth. And it’s with you as you wake terrified from each nightmare and pace the house, thinking frantically of how you can escape your poisoned life; escape the embrace of the demon that is eating away your mind like a slow drip of acid.

And always, the biggest stigma comes from yourself. You blame yourself for the illness that you can only dimly see.

So why was I depressed? The simple answer is that I don’t know. There was no single factor or trigger that plunged me into it. I’ve turned over many possibilities in my mind. But the best I can conclude is that depression can happen to anyone. I thought I was strong enough to resist it, but I was wrong. That attitude probably explains why I suffered such a serious episode – I resisted seeking help until it was nearly too late.

Let me take you back to 1996. I’d just begun my final year at university and had recently visited my doctor to complain of feeling low. He immediately put me on an antidepressant, and I got down to the business of getting my degree. The pills took a few weeks to work, but the effects were remarkable. Too remarkable. About six weeks in I was leaping from my bed each morning with a vigour and enthusiasm I had never experienced, at least not since early childhood. I started churning out first-class essays and my mind began to make connections with an ease that it had never done before.

The only problem was that the drug did much more. It broke down any fragile sense I had of social appropriateness. I’d frequently say ridiculous and painful things to people I had no right to say them to. So, after a few months, I decided to stop the pills. I ended them abruptly, not realising how foolish that was – and spent a week or two experiencing brain zaps and vertigo. But it was worth it. I still felt good, my mind was still productive, and I regained my sense of social niceties and appropriate behaviour.

I had hoped that was my last brush with mental health problems, but it was not to be.

On reflection, I realise I have spent over a decade dipping in and out of minor bouts of depression – each one slightly worse than the last.

Last spring I was in the grip of depression again. I couldn’t work effectively. I couldn’t earn the income I needed. I began retreating to the safety of my bed – using sleep to escape myself and my exhausted and joyless existence.

So I returned to the doctor and told her about it. It was warm, and I was wearing a cardigan. “I think we should test your thyroid,” she said. “But an antidepressant might help in the meantime.” And here I realised, for all my distaste for the stigmatisation of mental illness, that I stigmatised it in myself. I found myself hoping my thyroid was bust. Tell someone your thyroid’s not working, and they’ll understand and happily wait for you to recover. Tell them you’re depressed, and they might think you’re weak, or lazy, or making it up. I really wanted it to be my thyroid. But, of course, when the blood test came back, it wasn’t. I was depressed.

So I took the antidepressant. And it worked. To begin with. A month into the course, the poisonous cloud began to lift and I even felt my creativity and urge to write begin to return for the first time in years. Not great literature, but fun to write and enjoyed by my friends on social media. And tellingly, my wife said: “You’re becoming more like the person I first met.”

It was a turning point. The drug had given me objectivity about my illness, made me view it for what it was. This was when I realised I had been going through cycles of depression for years. It was a process of gradual erosion, almost impossible to spot while you were experiencing it. But the effects of the drug didn’t last. By September I was both deeply depressed and increasingly angry, behaving erratically and feeling endlessly paranoid.

My wife threatened to frog march me back to the doctor, so I made an appointment and was given another drug. The effects have been miraculous. Nearly two months in and I can feel the old me re-emerging. My engagement and interest is flooding back. I’m back at work and I’m producing copy my clients really love. Only eight weeks ago, the very idea that I would be sitting at home tapping out a blog post of this length on my phone would have made me grunt derisively. But that is what has happened, and I am truly grateful to all those who love and care for me for pushing me along to this stage.

And now, I need to get back to work. Depression may start for no definable reason, but it leaves a growing trail of problems in its wake. The more ill I got, the less work I could do, the more savings I spent and the larger the piles of unpaid bills became. But now I can start to tackle these things.

If you still attach stigma to people with mental illness, please remember two things. One, it could easily happen to you. And two, no one stigmatises their illness more than the people who suffer from it. Reach out to them.

• Mental health

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Narrative Essay about Anxiety and Depression

Everyone has a unique story, each with its hallmarks, learning lessons, and experiences. But despite our differences, we can all relate to having a major challenge in our life. Sometimes it's a stressful job, a medical condition, an accident, and sometimes it's losing a loved one. For me, my biggest challenge in life has been my mental health. In the last two years, I have battled anxiety and depression, grappling with a roller coaster of treatment options and the stigma that comes with it. This challenge has forced me to have a coming of age- I have had to learn important lessons, balance giving to others and caring for myself, and finally, I have realized my self-worth.

Anxiety and depression are hard for anyone to deal with, but especially for young adults like me when these problems are seen at large to 'only be faced by adults'. Feeling isolated and lost causes many people to not get the help they need- and often it can be too late before a step is taken to reach out for help. Luckily I was able to reach out for assistance and come to terms with my mental health, which many people of my age cannot do. This experience taught me to be brave, that it is okay to struggle, and that I am not alone.

I used to feel that I did not matter to others, and only cause them pain. I would 'make up for my existence' by trying to please others while neglecting myself. After getting support from those I love, I now know it's not narcissistic to take time for myself or to say 'no, not today.' Conversely, taking me-time and caring for myself allows me to have more energy and love to give to others. Now if I need some time, I don't feel like a terrible person, but instead relaxed and ready to bounce back.

Having feelings of intense sadness and worry for long periods of time can severely damage self-esteem. Personally, this prevented me from seeing any good in myself- I was stuck thinking I was a burden or terrible if I made a small mistake. I lost sight of my self-worth. After some healing, I began to reverse how I say myself and the world, until today where I realize that I can make the world a better place, and making mistakes is a part of being human.

I have had a great battle with my mental health in recent years. I am no stranger to feeling lost, isolated, and unloved. Although I am not quite an adult, I have learned hard lessons though to only be faced by 'grown-ups', learned to care for myself and recognize my true worth. Today I still struggle with negative thoughts and worry, but I have built a strong inner voice that keeps me going: I am not perfect, I am human, I learn from my mistakes, make the world a better place with my life, and most importantly I am worthy of love from myself and others just the way I am.

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16 Personal Essays About Mental Health Worth Reading

Here are some of the most moving and illuminating essays published on BuzzFeed about mental illness, wellness, and the way our minds work.

BuzzFeed Staff

1. My Best Friend Saved Me When I Attempted Suicide, But I Didn’t Save Her — Drusilla Moorhouse

"I was serious about killing myself. My best friend wasn’t — but she’s the one who’s dead."

2. Life Is What Happens While You’re Googling Symptoms Of Cancer — Ramona Emerson

"After a lifetime of hypochondria, I was finally diagnosed with my very own medical condition. And maybe, in a weird way, it’s made me less afraid to die."

3. How I Learned To Be OK With Feeling Sad — Mac McClelland

"It wasn’t easy, or cheap."

4. Who Gets To Be The “Good Schizophrenic”? — Esmé Weijun Wang

"When you’re labeled as crazy, the “right” kind of diagnosis could mean the difference between a productive life and a life sentence."

5. Why Do I Miss Being Bipolar? — Sasha Chapin

"The medication I take to treat my bipolar disorder works perfectly. Sometimes I wish it didn’t."

6. What My Best Friend And I Didn’t Learn About Loss — Zan Romanoff

"When my closest friend’s first baby was stillborn, we navigated through depression and grief together."

7. I Can’t Live Without Fear, But I Can Learn To Be OK With It — Arianna Rebolini

"I’ve become obsessively afraid that the people I love will die. Now I have to teach myself how to be OK with that."

8. What It’s Like Having PPD As A Black Woman — Tyrese Coleman

"It took me two years to even acknowledge I’d been depressed after the birth of my twin sons. I wonder how much it had to do with the way I had been taught to be strong."

9. Notes On An Eating Disorder — Larissa Pham

"I still tell my friends I am in recovery so they will hold me accountable."

10. What Comedy Taught Me About My Mental Illness — Kate Lindstedt

"I didn’t expect it, but stand-up comedy has given me the freedom to talk about depression and anxiety on my own terms."

11. The Night I Spoke Up About My #BlackSuicide — Terrell J. Starr

"My entire life was shaped by violence, so I wanted to end it violently. But I didn’t — thanks to overcoming the stigma surrounding African-Americans and depression, and to building a community on Twitter."

12. Knitting Myself Back Together — Alanna Okun

"The best way I’ve found to fight my anxiety is with a pair of knitting needles."

13. I Started Therapy So I Could Take Better Care Of Myself — Matt Ortile

"I’d known for a while that I needed to see a therapist. It wasn’t until I felt like I could do without help that I finally sought it."

14. I’m Mending My Broken Relationship With Food — Anita Badejo

"After a lifetime struggling with disordered eating, I’m still figuring out how to have a healthy relationship with my body and what I feed it."

15. I Found Love In A Hopeless Mess — Kate Conger

"Dehoarding my partner’s childhood home gave me a way to understand his mother, but I’m still not sure how to live with the habit he’s inherited."

16. When Taking Anxiety Medication Is A Revolutionary Act — Tracy Clayton

"I had to learn how to love myself enough to take care of myself. It wasn’t easy."

Topics in this article

• Mental Health