I don't fit the archetype when I tell you I am a fourth-year college student active in his fraternity, in fact, I'm almost the polar opposite. I am an extremely self-conscious person with a distorted body image disorder, eating disorder, severe depression and anxiety. I've shown symptoms for as long as I can remember, but I always feared being labeled depressed and prolonged a diagnosis and seeking treatment. I ignored it for several years, pushing it all to the back of my mind until it eventually clawed its way out of box I locked it in and eventually locked me in that very same box.. It has been a struggle to continue two separate lives: one full of depression and a lack of motivation and another as an excited, zealous and studious collegiate that is relatively known on campus.

It's exhausting to go day to day acting "normal." No one knows when you're upset because you constantly hide what you're feeling. You hide your feelings because you're afraid people won't understand what's wrong, because no event has happened to cause emotional distress. It's just a constant feeling of exhaustion, irritability, worthlessness and a lack of motivation that is so difficult to explain that when you're asked what's wrong, you give a simple reply: "I'm just tired." But without proper treatment, depression can turn into something extremely dreadful, and eventually that happened to me. I reached a very dark point in my life.

For two semesters, I locked myself in my apartment. I would only leave to go to work, the gym and for the occasional meal. I wouldn't eat for two or three days, then have an entire day where I would binge eat; I was lucky if I could hold any of the food down. I would exercise until I was in so much pain from exertion that I was unable to move without discomfort for days. I couldn't sleep and if I did, it was for only a few hours filled with night terrors.

I woke up every morning covered in sweat, and most nights I was too afraid to even attempt falling asleep. I stopped going to class and watched as my GPA plummeted into an almost unrecoverable state. I stopped talking to my friends and family. I ignored everyone that cared because no matter what happened or what someone said, I felt worthless and didn't want to burden anyone with my problem. I had become self-destructive.

I felt that this was punishment for something or everything I had done. I felt as if I deserved this feeling of emptiness, that I deserved to be miserable, and I sometimes even welcomed the intrinsic thoughts that filled my mind.

I had become the bane of my own existence.

I hated myself. I hated how I looked. I hated how I acted. I hated my life. I was convinced that everyone I knew hated me as well. I had forgotten what happiness was and how to smile, and I was fine with it. I was fine with spending the rest of my life with just my thoughts and my worst enemy, myself.

Alone at night, my mind would either race or simply lie dormant. The thoughts that would fill my head only reassured me how hopeless my situation was and how my opinions of myself were now fact. I convinced myself that no one loved me or cared about me, so I removed everyone from my life. My friends would call, and I would let it ring or go to voicemail—some days I still do. I wouldn't reply to their text messages. If I did, I'd find terrible excuses not to hang out or reply hours later with "Sorry, I was sleeping." I was losing everything I ever had, and instead of fighting for it all, I just watched it all slip from my fingertips.

As I fell deeper into the darkness that filled my mind—resurgence seemed to be an impossibility. Every thing and everyone I had ever loved or wanted to spend time with was gone. I had nothing. I was just an empty vessel without a soul, carrying an incredible weight on its shoulders like Atlas carrying the world.

After struggling with that unbearable weight at its heaviest for over a year, I eventually told all of my fraternity brothers that I had been struggling with depression. It was one of the hardest things I had ever done, and it came at one of the worst times in my life. That morning, my girlfriend had left me, I found out my time in school would be prolonged, I had just surrendered a dog I was fostering and I hadn't spoken to my parents in months.

I told them at the initiation of our most recent candidate class in fall of 2015. I never thought something I could say would break so many hearts simultaneously. As I spoke, I began to fill with anxiety. My knees became weak, and I felt as if I was going to fall to the ground or pass out. I began to shake. My chest became heavy, and the room became intensely hot. Mustering every ounce of strength, I endured for what seemed like an eternity and got through the moments of pure honesty. I knew that I needed to. I knew my brothers needed me to. I knew that my brothers needed to know the truth.

As I choked out the final words with tears in my eyes, the room fell silent. My brothers were in total shock. Every jaw had dropped to the floor and all eyes were wide in disbelief. I knew they were afraid for what could have happened had I not expressed my problem and so was I. They had no inkling that it had become so incredibly bad and that it would continue through my fall semester.

It was incredibly difficult showing a side of me that is usually reserved for the most intimate and private moments. When I spoke to them, I had no walls or safeguards. As someone that has always been viewed as bold, a voice of reason, helpful, strong and passionate, I was now weak and helpless. But what happened next was unexpected.

Instead of viewing me the way I viewed myself, my brothers showed sympathy. Not the sympathy where they constantly ask if you're OK or where everyone feels sorry for you, it was the sympathy that was compassionate. They felt my pain with me and wanted to watch me get better. My brothers encouraged me to push through. Some even offered to go with me to my therapy sessions or call to schedule my psychiatry appointments. They listened to me cry. Held me back when I was angry and calmed me down. They welcomed me when I walked into the fraternity house. And that's what saved me, saved my life. Their continuous support pushed me to get better, not for myself but for them. I hated seeing them hurt because of what I was doing to myself and how deep I was in my mind.

Since then, I've slowly crawled from my abyss. Yes, there are still bad days where I battle my depression, but I know I have an entire chapter supporting me. A chapter that doesn't judge me for a chemical imbalance that is out of my control. A chapter that accepts me who I am, no matter my faults.