Ever since I was 11, I have suffered from social anxiety and depression. It is widely known that no substantial memories are developed until around that age, so the personality I had is the personality I have always assumed to be, well, me. I was always shy, awkward and timid. I had a difficult time making friends. Other girls my age were frequently invited to sleepovers and slumber parties. I spent most of my time at home, playing outside with as few people as possible. My fear of putting myself out there isolated me. I became nothing but background noise. To other 11-year-old children, I was no better than a pariah. I was the weird girl who chose to be by myself during partner projects; I sat at picnic tables and colored alone during recess. When I finally started making real friends during my freshman year of high school, the people I surrounded myself with were dumbfounded.

I have a natural talent for juggling more than one conversation at a time, I can work a crowd like a politician, and I have enough charisma to become a game show host. However, as soon as I get out of my comfort zone and into a foreign environment, I shut down. It doesn’t matter if I’m still surrounded by my friends. I become a terrified mute. I am once again that 11-year-old girl trying to avoid a conversation at all costs. Unlike other introverts, I watch the people around me and have the infuriating desire to be a part of everything. I have the desire to speak up and charm them the way I know that I can, but I’m terrified. I’m terrified of messing up. I’m terrified of saying something stupid. This terror overwhelms me and freezes my entire body. I’m lucky if I can spend twenty minutes at a social gathering without succumbing to a full-blown panic attack.

At 15, I labeled myself an introvert. I carried that label all throughout high school. My desire to be away from people took over my life so completely that I graduated a year early so that I could stop being required to socialize. I hoped and prayed that college would be different. I believed that everyone would be more focused on school work and less focused on trying to speak to me. I got what I wanted—but I also got something else.

In my first psychology class, I took the Myers-Briggs personality test. My professor insisted that this test would tell me things about my personality that I couldn’t possibly already know. Being the know-it-all that I am, I assumed that the test would tell me nothing that I didn’t already know. It would say that I’m an introvert—maybe it could tell me that I’m artistically inclined. But other than that? No.

I took the test. When I got my results, I took it again. Then two more times. I was shocked to learn that I am, in fact, not an introvert. In fact, I am as extroverted as they come. My personality is supposed to be a charmer, a molder of crowds, a devil’s advocate, and an insensitive jerk. Aside from those tell-tale traits, people with my personality are mostly men. Only five or so percent of us are women. I tossed the results aside and just presumed that it was another quack test made up by someone who had no idea what they were doing and didn’t think about it again until I ended up in the behavioral health unit at the hospital during my fourth semester of college.

I was diagnosed with depression, generalized anxiety and social anxiety. Something that one of my therapists told me during my stay there really stuck with me: “Sometimes, when you’ve had a mental illness for so long, you don’t remember who you were beforehand. Social anxiety can turn an extrovert into a frail introvert. Depression can turn the happiest person into the saddest person. You need to discover who you were before your mind turned you into something else.”

That’s when it all started to make sense. I’ve been told stories by my family members about how happy and bubbly I was as a child. I would make strangers fall in love with my charm. I was in no way an introvert. I was not born to be scared. Somehow, after years and years of living with my illness, I became a completely different person. When I am out in public around dozens of people and I retreat into myself, there is a small part of me that always tugs. There is a small part of me that looks longingly at the crowds of people and wants to be a part of it. That small part of me is the real me.

For those of us who have been struggling with a mental illness our whole life, it is difficult trying to remember who we are. For us, it will never be easy. There will always be a constant battle between the broken, yet stronger part of you…and the feeble part of you that is barely clinging on. It is important to hold on to that feeble piece. Feed it, make it grow. Let it flourish. It’s there, underneath all of that darkness, just waiting to come out. No matter how far into your illness you are, it will always hold tight. I have been treating my illness for three months now, and I already see the difference. That tiny, feeble part of me has grown stronger. A mental illness is not a life sentence. It gets better.