When I knew

It’s strange how we sometimes don’t even realize we’re drowning until we’ve already sunk too deep. For me, that moment came slowly—almost imperceptibly. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. From a young age, confidence was a foreign concept. It wasn’t something I was taught to embrace; it was something I never had. Growing up with an unhealthy relationship with my mother, the absence of my father, and bullying from both peers and family members left me feeling small, worthless even. The truth was, I didn’t feel good about myself because I had no one around me telling me I was worth something.

It didn’t help that, deep down, I believed I was the cause of all the problems around me. I thought I was the reason for my mom and dad’s addiction issues, the reason I had to live with someone else. I convinced myself that I would never be more than they thought of me. It wasn’t just a fleeting thought; it was a conviction that I carried with me every day. The voices in my head told me I would be everything they said I’d be—everything I wasn’t capable of being—and for a long time, I listened to those voices.

Happiness was something that seemed so distant. I didn’t know what it felt like anymore. I became the "funny one” the one who covered up her pain with laughter. But as time passed, even laughter wasn’t enough to mask what I was feeling inside. It became harder to keep up with the façade, and one day, I couldn’t fake it anymore. I had nothing in me to laugh about. I became more withdrawn. I was acting out in school.  

At that point in my life, we were on government assistance. We had Medicaid, but we rarely saw a doctor. The only time I remember seeing a doctor was going to the emergency room when I had tried to play junior chemist and ended up making things worse while cleaning the bathroom. But even then, I had no clue what was really going on inside of me. All I knew was that, at the age of 12 or 13, I cried every day—at school, at home, alone in my bed at night. It was exhausting, both physically and emotionally.

And then there was that one moment. I remember it clearly. I was in the shower, tears streaming down my face, and no matter what I did, the crying wouldn’t stop. It felt endless. It was in that moment that I KNEW, for sure, something was WRONG. I wasn’t just sad or having a bad day. This was something bigger, something that had been building for years.

I’d always been an avid reader as a child. Reading was my escape, my way of disconnecting from the things around me. I don’t know why, but I felt drawn to an encyclopedia set my dad had bought me. Even though he was incarcerated, he always tried to ensure I had what I needed for school. I hurried to the section about mental health, and that’s when I first read about depression. Something clicked. It was as though I had finally found the name for the invisible weight I had been carrying all along.

I’ll never forget the next time my dad called from prison. I told him what I had read, what I thought was happening with me. I’m not sure if he truly understood what depression was or how to help me. I can’t remember his exact words, but I know he tried to reassure me that things would get better. Depression wasn’t something people talked about in my community. It was often dismissed as a weakness, something you could just snap out of if you prayed enough or believed enough. So, when I told a trusted relative about my feelings, I was met with that response, “You ain’t praying, you ain’t strong.” 

That moment was pivotal. It was confirmation to me that my struggles were a sign of weakness. If I couldn’t control my sadness, then surely, I was weak. And from that point on, I carried my depression with shame. I learned to keep it to myself, to hide it from everyone, because being open about it would only confirm my worst fear—that I wasn’t strong enough to handle it.

For years, from the age of 12 to 21, I lived in silence. I didn’t seek help. I didn’t even know how to. As a teenager, I self-medicated. I acted out in ways that only made my struggles worse. I physically harmed myself, trying to deal with the overwhelming visceral emotional pain. I even attempted suicide.

But this isn’t where my story ends. I want to share this part of my journey with you not to dwell on the darkness but to show you that there is light, even when you can’t see it. It took years before I was finally diagnosed with depression, but even after the diagnosis, the road to healing wasn’t easy. It’s still a journey I’m on. But I’ve learned something important along the way: I am not weak for struggling. I am not broken. I am human.

If you’re reading this and you feel like I did, like you’re carrying a burden that no one else can see, please know that you are not alone. Your struggles are valid, and seeking help is a sign of strength, not weakness. You don’t have to carry this alone. There is help, and there is hope.

Healing is a long road, but it’s one worth walking. And I promise you, no matter how dark it may seem, you are worthy of joy, of peace, and of all the love you deserve. You don’t have to be defined by your past. You can find strength in your vulnerability, and with time, you will thrive.