It has been years since I have thought to take the words out of my head and put them down on paper (or computer). I never thought I would go that long without writing. Yet, as I found myself attending boarding school and college, my pen and journal got lost in boxes and drawers as life kept moving.

In high school, I wrote poetry. My poems would often be very personal, ranging from topics of life and death to being an introvert. My poetry, and journaling, in general, was an outlet for me. Writing kept me from being in my head too long, lingering there and pondering the many ups and downs that life has to offer. Whenever I was feeling strongly about anything, writing was my go-to platform for expressing myself. Perhaps it was because I hadn't learned how to articulate myself using spoken words yet, but there was something about taking the conscious time to craft my sentences that made writing hold power and value in my life. However, even in my acknowledgment of what writing had been for me at 16 years old, I didn't realize what it had saved me from until recently, at 20 years old and in danger again.

Life is similar to a long road that you are never fully aware leads to. Along the way, you deal with ill weather, natural disasters, chasms that must be crossed, and more. And of course, this road can also be covered in flowers, peace, light, and more. But for me, this road also holds an animal. I visualize it as a black cat that walks in silence next to me all the time. Sometimes it weaves in and out of the tall grass that lines the road, occasionally watching me from a tree when I stop to linger in an area for a while. When I get too far ahead of it, it runs up behind me, hissing and scratching my ankles, distracting me from my task and journey at hand. At 16, I never realized what this cat really was. I imagined it as just the strongest emotions I was feeling at the time. I thought I was just dealing with hormones, and my mother fighting breast cancer. I thought being perpetually sad was normal, just a phase. But now, at 20, I have come to terms with the fact that my internal cat has actually been depression.

Now that I have admitted to myself what that inner animal truly is, and was, I have spent countless hours trying to figure out how my management of it was different then from now. Words cannot express how many conversations I have had with myself in my head, how many internal concept maps I have drawn in an attempt to understand the difference. Maybe it was that I was just a different person now. Perhaps the difficulty of trying to become a "good" and "responsible" adult had changed me and I was no longer equipped to take care of this animal anymore. Perhaps my animal had also grown from the kitten it once was into an older, angrier, more assertive cat. No matter what the reason, all I knew is that if I had been managing it back then, I definitely was not managing it now. So what was different? After scouring my brain for hours, and failing to come up with an answer, I found a new friend who has also been battling depression for years. He said to me, "Do you ever think your depression has gotten worse because you don't write anymore and you also speak less? You spend way more time in your head talking to yourself than anything else." His comment resonated with me. I had failed to realize how lingering inside my head so often could be affecting me. I was so busy entertaining the cat and playing with it that I had noticed that I wasn't truly finding a better way to interact with the cat, but rather simply feeding it so much that it would never leave.

Instead, I tried picking up my pen and paper again. After a four-year hiatus, I was scared. I had spent so long losing myself and my way in the endless abyss that is the mind, how could I possibly get back to the writer that I used to be? Upon writing, I realized that I might never get back to the writer that I used to be. But I also realized that I didn't need to be that writer anymore. That writer kept my 16-year old self from slipping into where I found myself now. The writer I needed now was the one who would save my life, who would help me stay afloat when I felt I was drowning, who could handle the days of sadness and immobility that were sure to come, who would remind me that I can make it through today even when I wasn't sure that I wanted to be around tomorrow. That is the writer I need to be.

I am not sure that I've become that writer yet. But practice makes perfect, and since I have begun writing again, I have had fewer very bad days. The sun doesn't shine over my road all the time, and I can still see the cat watching me from a tree. But the cat hisses at me and distracts me less. I have had more opportunity to look away from the cat and back to the road ahead than I have in a while. And who knows, maybe talking to myself or the universe or others through my writing really isn't the best way to take care of my cat. Maybe I really should ask for outside help. But I haven't been ready to do that yet. Perhaps I'll be able to write that stop onto my road ahead. After all, I am the author of my own life, am I not? I suppose I'll see.

*All depression is not the same, nor is it managed the same. Please do not take this as a guaranteed or proven method of care, it is simply something that has worked for me. Please take the necessary steps for you if dealing with depression or suicidal thoughts. May your support network be ever strong, and know that you are not alone. Even if doesn't feel like that all the time.