As a society, we like to blame the individual for not wanting to get better...for not wanting to come out and have a good time...for choosing to be upset. It all has to stop. We need to not only stop shaming one another but also stop defining each other as our mental illnesses. Here are just a few things reminding you of what depression is not...

1. A choice

I can't just turn it on and off like a switch. I didn't choose the depressed life...but for some reason, it chose me. I don't like to be this way; sometimes I wish I could just flip a switch and be happy.

2. An excuse

It isn't an excuse as to why I'm not out with my friends, nor an excuse as to why I'm not in class. It's what's hindering me from mustering up the energy to leave my bed.

3. Feeling a bit under the weather

I have depression, not a cold. I don't just "feel sad" or "unwell". I can't just cough for an hour and get all my sadness out. It's going to take more than chicken soup and a hot shower to make me feel better when I'm in the midst of a depression spell.

4. Heroic

If I hear one more person being idolized for being mentally ill, I'm going to snap. It takes more than just bravery to live with this awful monster under my bed. It takes endless coping: crying, talking, medication for some, anything to shut her up for a little while. Depression shouldn't be praised and rewarded. There's a difference between empathy and romanticization. You wouldn't idolize someone for going through the same things you have, right? So, those suffering with this illness shouldn't be put on a pedestal and labeled a hero. Depression should be talked more as a disease rather than a social aspect.

5. Forgettable

The thing about depression is that she's a monster that sleeps on the top bunk of my amygdala. When she's not sleeping and dreaming of frozen pizzas, she makes her presence known. She awakens in the dead of night with an umbrella of dread and despair just so you know she's never really gone.

6. Romantic

It isn't some boy with flippy hair kissing the marks on my arms. It isn't some sappy poem laid over black and white photography. It most certainly is not New York Time's #1 best-selling romance novel. It's a sickness, and nothing about it makes me swoon and wish for some dude with huge muscles to wipe my tears.