One Year Untreated.

The day after I stopped taking medication for my depression, I did not notice a difference in my mood and behavior. According to my friends, I was still the same Natalie. I was quiet. I listened to my music often. I wrote down in my journals.

As the weeks went by, I fell into the same routine.

I woke up. I took a shower. I got dressed. I ate breakfast. I packed my backpack. I trekked up the hill to the bus stop where I waited for my bus to arrive to take me to school.

School was still the same. First, morning announcements and then attendance. After that, it was the lesson from either the day before or a new one. I answered questions when I was asked. I scribbled down notes. I wrote down the homework and proceeded to go to my next class. Then, when lunch time rolled around, I ate with friends. We talked about our teachers. Our ungodly amount of homework. The latest gossip in middle school. Who was dating who. Who broke up with who. It was the same as it had always been.

I did not speak to anyone about my diagnosis. My friends. The guidance counselor. My teachers. No one. I kept that secret to myself and I swore that I would take it to my grave if I had to.

However, there was a part of me that wondered what if I had gone back to the doctor. What if I told him that I was still sad? That I was lonely? That I felt... alone?

I pushed all those thoughts into the back of my brain, as far as I could, and I left it there.

Those weeks turned into months and before I knew it, summer had arrived and I was about to start eighth grade.

Two Years Untreated.

When I turned 14, I was excited that I was going to be moving on from middle school to high school come May. I was happy that all those memories of the bullying and the depression would be left behind. I was only one year away from being a high schooler.

I told myself on a daily basis that eighth grade was going to be better. I was going to have the time of my life.

When September rolled around, I developed a crush on one of my fellow classmates. We were friends during sixth grade. Thick as thieves but we lost touch. We rekindled our friendship and it was not long before we started dating.

We held hands in the hallway. I kissed his cheek and he would do the same. He would wrap his around my shoulder during lunch. I would lean into his touch, eyes closed and a wide smile. He wrote little notes to me and stuck them in my locker. I would giggle and blush like a school girl. Other students commented on our relationship, claiming that they were jealous; I was certain that they were.

I was so happy. I was convinced that nothing, nothing, would ruin this.

Then my dad told the family that he had received a job in Kansas and that he was going to move during Fall Break. My heart sank. Moving? To Kansas of all places? The flattest state in the U.S.?

When Fall Break arrived, my family and I loaded up the cars and drove across several states to Kansas to help my dad move into his apartment near the base. He said that he was going to start looking for houses. He said that everything was going to be okay. We would come out during spring break and look at houses with our real estate agent. Hopefully, we would find one and start preparing the paperwork and move before school started.

When I came back, I told my friends and my boyfriend that I was moving. They were sad but I was more upset that I was going to be leaving my boyfriend. We had only been together for over 2 months but I was already head over heels.

And again, I fell into the same routine as I always did and when May arrived, I packed up my bags and we moved to Kansas. I left behind my friends. My teachers. My boyfriend. Everyone. I sunk back into my shell once more and I was stuck in a boring house for the whole summer.

Three Years Untreated.

When I moved to Kansas, I was positive that I was living in Hell. The heat. The small town with one stop-light. I found out from the school's calendar that my first day of freshman year would fall on my birthday. I was going to be 15, in a new school, and no friends.

So, when the first day came around, I took a shower and dressed. I packed my backpack like always and got into the car with my mom and sister. My mom dropped us off at the front doors of the high school, told us to have a good day, and drove off.

I was half-tempted to run and jump into the car with her. I wanted to go back to Kentucky and be with all my friends. I wanted to graduate high school with them! Why didn't anyone understand that?

I put on the bravest face I could muster and stepped into the doors of Basehor-Linwood High School.

I was quiet for most of the day. I introduced myself to all the teachers and students when I was asked. Then, I walked into choir. I took a seat near the door in case if I wanted to make a break for it. I was expecting to be left alone; no one wanted to sit near the new girl.

But boy was I wrong. A girl with blonde hair came up to me, sat down, and stuck out her hand for me to shake.

"Hi, I'm Hayley," she said.

I took her hand and shook it. "Natalie," was my reply.

The blonde, Hayley, grinned and then said, "I think we're going to be really good friends, Natalie."

At the time I didn't believe her but she proved me wrong.

Basehor proved me wrong for the next four years of my high school career and for the first time since the move, I was happy.

There was no depression cloud hanging over my head and I was glad it was gone.

But, depression has an odd way of raising its ugly head and making things worse. And it did so my sophomore year of high school.