But I'm going to attempt to do just that.

I never liked excuses, never will. I hate using depression as an excuse, so I don't. But I'd be lying if I said my mental health didn't affect the life I live and the choices I've made. I can't pretend like it doesn't have an effect on my grades or my work.

Depression is not some made up thing I conjured in my mind. It's real. And it follows me around like a shadow.

I remember clutching tissues in my hand, balled up and wet. I remember wiping the snot from my nose with my sleeve. I remember the puffy red eyes and the streaked cheeks. But most of all I remember feeling incomplete, inadequate. Like I wasn't whole and never will be.

I always had troubles sleeping. I still do. I have a hard time falling asleep, and when I eventually do, I have a hard time staying unconscious. I'll stay up, tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling. I'll count to 100 forwards and backwards. I'll wake in the dead of the night, feeling anxious and nervous. Knowing I need to sleep but not being able to.

I used to think something was wrong with me. I spent my nights crying instead of having sleepovers or hosting parties. I spent my days putting on an act and hoping no one saw through it.

In the past, whenever I wrote about depression, I fictionalized it. I created characters and made them go through what I was going through, meanwhile changing a fact here or there. But I never wrote about depression without fictionalizing some element of it, however small. For me, it was a defensive mechanism. A way to cope without coping completely. A way to tackle the issue without tackling it directly. Even though writing fiction has helped, I think I knew at some point I'd have to talk about depression openly and honestly, without changing dates and events.

Yet how do you talk about it? What would you say? Who do you tell? Would you worry about someone judging you or wonder if they'll just brush you off? Not being able to see it or touch it makes depression that much harder to grasp. And if you've never faced it, you can't fully comprehend the nuances. I don't understand all that I've been through. But I know it was hard. Sometimes I wish I could give everyone easy, straightforward answers. But nothing about depression is easy or straightforward.

I don't want or need people to feel sorry for me. If I wanted attention, trust me, this wouldn't be the way I'd go about seeking it. I'm writing this to share my story of what I've been through. Nothing came easy. Writing this certainly isn't. But I held on to the things that made sense while trying to make sense of the mess I was in. And in trying to make sense of this world, I made more sense of myself.

I wouldn't change anything about my past or my present. After all, I am who I am today because of what happened to me. And if I can accept that, then surely someone else can too.