I've been familiar with despair all my life. I come from an abusive background, and that feeling of being unwanted seeps in over time. At a young age, I struggled with my body. I never felt beautiful, and I threw myself at anyone who made me feel I was, even momentarily. My plunging sense of self-worth was a determining factor for everything important in my life; my friends, my relationships and even my dreams.

I found myself unable to maintain any stable relationship, be it a friend or a boyfriend. They came and went, unable to connect with my constant people-pleasing self. I kept changing myself, almost like a chameleon, projecting shades of what people wanted me to be, onto myself. I would hide from those "Who are you?" questions because my answers were always the same: "I am everything you want me to be."

I grew up with one dream only; to fit in and belong with a clique who appreciated my presence. Someone who called me because they liked talking to me. I wanted in on group parties, secrets, the who's dating whom conversations that most teenagers indulge in. Yet, I found myself fluctuating from one group to another, almost slug-like, just wanting to be wanted by even one of them. Anybody really, who would want me around.

I've been taught to hate my body since I was 4, trying hard to get the filth off of the man who touched me when I didn't want to be held that way. I grew up wanting to be held by someone who loved my mind. I went around to date someone who hated both my mind and my body, and spent 3 years hitting me for it.

I kept ingraining within myself my sense of worthlessness, my self-rejection. I kept seeking some form of validation and comfort, even if it came from violence. But after enough broken bones, I needed my self-destruction to stop. So I got myself to make it stop.

After transferring to a college that is continents away from my history of abuse, alienation and pain, I hoped my situation would be better. Before I moved here, I would find myself wanting to die at least ten times a day. I had already attempted suicide thrice, across a span of a few years, starting in 8th grade, realizing that I wasn't meant to be here. I didn't belong. I wasn't wanted.

My worried parents had taken me to doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists, anyone who could possibly get me out of my depression. Putting on a mask was so second nature to me, I promised each of them I would get better and move forward. That I was fine, that I didn't want to die.

But I lied. I wasn't fine. I did want to die. About ten times a day, I harnessed descriptive visions of how I would cease to exist.

Moving forward to my college life, here I am, in Boston. The historical city of my favorite writers, Plath, Sexton and Jhumpa Lahiri. Two of the three killed themselves after suffering from severe depression. I kept romanticizing that maybe, I could die like they did, and have my writings published as masterpieces that would be discovered and appreciated.

But, I am an idiot. Depression isn't beautiful. It isn't romantic. It isn't a call out to the knight in shining armor to come and give you the kiss of life to save you from destroying yourself. It isn't a form of attention seeking behavior either. It is a disease. It is a mental illness that is definitely life-taking.

Since I got here, I found myself receding back to my old ways. I started cutting myself, watching the blood ooze out of my bare flesh. I couldn't get myself to leave my house any longer. I didn't do laundry for months. I didn't eat much or I binged on the closest junk I could get my hands on. I didn't shower. I lost myself in a world of television and even Facebook to let myself create an illusion of happiness. A reality where I wasn't as miserable as I felt right now. I couldn't make friends. I found myself checking the 'interested' button on all Facebook events but never showing up for any. I saw myself wanting to be a writer, a journalist, a respected activist, but I saw myself working towards nothing. I was shut in, with my brooding world of despair and worthlessness and I didn't have a soul to rescue me.

I missed 2 weeks of my mid-term exams until I finally snapped. I couldn't do this any longer. I wasn't attending any classes. I wasn't taking my exams. I wasn't meeting anyone. I stopped living. I lived in a bubble wrought out of my own self-pity and I couldn't let myself relive my trauma as an excuse for my dysfunctional present.

I got out of my bed. Stripped naked of my stink and jumped into the shower. For two hours, I sat under a tap of scalding hot water and cried. I relived every fear I felt of how inadequately I had spent my life. I thought about the times I was hit and how desperately I tried covering my bruises. I relived the times I was touched without my consent, making me hate my body, desperately trying to scrape off my skin because I felt ugly. I felt truly ugly, inadequate, worthless. I was disgusting to my self. I hated myself. I wish I never existed.

And the words of someone who once meant a lot to me, rang in my head: "Meghna? I mean, we were good friends, she wanted to always be my best friend. But I don't know why she looks back at me as someone who meant so much to her, because she meant nothing to me. I just felt bad for her, you know? She's this little, scared girl. Scared of the world. Scared of everything. I just felt bad for her."

And in that moment I realized that often we spend so much of our lives loving someone, and thinking about someone who never had a second thought about us. We hurt someone, and we get hurt. I obsessed over my ex-friends, my abuser, my molester, my child-abuser. I hated them. I hated how they made me feel. I hated how they made me hate myself. I obsessed about how they ruined me. But the truth is, today, at this moment, not one of them are in my life and I can still see it falling apart.

It is "I" who is ruining my life now, dwelling on moments and people who've only moved forward, completely forgetting me. It is "I" who wasn't taking my exams or attending classes. It is "I" who spent 12 hours hiding under sheets because I was too terrified to just wake up and start over. I could feel the pile of my inadequacies tumbling onto me and I was too frightened to push past everything and start afresh.

It is time that "I" take responsibility for my life. It is time I take help to fight my depression without being afraid of what the world would think of me. It is time that I tell myself that it is okay to feel unworthy and not wanted sometimes and loving myself is a journey that I have to constantly undertake until I get myself to become the strong, carefree woman I've always dreamt of being.

Depression can only ruin me, as long as I let it. As long as I refuse to accept it. As long as I refuse to take responsibility and want to change it. I refuse to let it consume me or ruin me. I refuse to sink into self-destruction and from this determined moment on, I promise to never give up on my life. I am worth it. I really am.