When I sat down to write this article I began to struggle with exactly how I wanted to convey my journey and the battles that accompany it.

I knew that if I were to attempt to speak of everything that has been consuming my thoughts throughout the past year I would not be doing a justice to those reading this. My hope is that those who have been on the same path or who are currently struggling to overcome these battles will find comfort in knowing that one is never alone in pain; mental illness does not discriminate, the happiest person you know could be smiling by day and contemplating taking their own life by night.

For some reason, there is not just a negative stigma surrounding the issue of mental illness, but also a fear of talking about these issues. If we as a society stopped looking at mental health as being in a vacuum, lessened the scientific and biological jargon behind the causes, and traded the lens through which we viewed the world for that of a lens that allowed us to view people based on their pain and suffering, maybe, just maybe, we could begin making progress toward the end of this stigma and fear.

I want to use my voice; to spread awareness, to provide support, and to help lead others down the path of recovery. I use the word recovery loosely here, as those who are familiar with depression and anxiety know too well that this can be a lifelong battle. However, recovery is a subjective term that can have individualized meanings. For me, my recovery began the day I realized that I was living a life that my depression and anxiety fed on day in and day out. Depression thrived on my lack of self-respect, on the mornings when I would wake up fighting to remember who I was. Anxiety had a hay day with my regrets, fears, and insecurities; gradually creating a vicious never-ending cycle of decreased self-worth resulting from two years of regretful decisions and a lack of self-love.

I hated myself. I hated who I was, I hated what I did, and I hated how I chose to cope with the struggles of life. Like many others who find themselves drowning in a pool of self-hate, I turned to sources of emotional release like alcohol, and I attempted to re-discover my worth through the company of others that were too busy using me to even acknowledge the fact that I had any worth.

There was a point, about a year ago, when I hit that inevitable point of rock bottom so fast and so hard that I felt it had knocked me into a coma I would never be able to wake from. I spent my days on a couch, either crying or sleeping. I became nothing more than a puppet, with my depression and anxiety partnering up as the puppeteers.

This became routine. Not to say that I never experience days like this presently, because I definitely do, more often than I like to admit. However, the difference between now and then is that I now possess hope; hope in a life without sadness, hope for advancement in the mental health field, and hope in my savior, Jesus Christ.

One day, a light appeared. It was a rather small, dim light at first, but it was there. And it saved me.