I am not my illness. Catch me on an ordinary day, and I'm an optimistic ball of energy who laughs at almost anything. I've done stand-up comedy. I've done half-marathons. I've written a sitcom pilot. I'm not one to shy away from things because I might fail at finishing them or humiliate myself in the process. I'm probably in the middle of 80 different projects on any given day, because everything seems to catch my interest. In short, I am a happy college student who enjoys life.

But I also have depression. And just like with arthritis or migraines (or any other chronic illness you can think of), depression's symptoms affect how I engage with the world around me. All of a sudden, I will turn from the woman described above to simply her shell. It's as if my personality, goals, interests, emotions, and everything that makes me me, disintegrated. Believe me, I want to be happy. I wish it were that simple. But it's hard to feel happy when I can't even feel. When my depression hits, the idea of choosing to be happy sounds a lot like choosing to stay dry in a rainstorm.

I go to class, but learn nothing, because my brain cannot seem to process and interpret anything. I sport the cleanest shirt I could find in my ever-growing pile of dirty laundry, because the amount of energy it would take for me to throw in a load of wash sends me into a breakdown. Getting up early enough to shower suddenly feels like dragging myself out of bed to run ten miles. And the thought of actually going for a run sends tears down my cheeks. An activity I once fell in love with has become nothing but another draining burden that depression uses to remind me "you have failed yet again." The self-deprecating intrusive thoughts consume my brain to the point where they are all I hear. Everything I see, say, think, or hear is filtered through depression's hateful translator. I have learned to cry quietly so that my roommate doesn't hear.

Despite all of this, I have survived. I am through the horrendous bout of depression and enjoying life again. The fight to recovery starts out small, like reaching out to my doctor to let her know I need some help again. I made lists of things that absolutely had to get done by the end of the day, even if that list consists of showering, eating breakfast, and getting coffee with a friend. The list gave me a sense of purpose and accomplishment, which depression was gracious enough to steal from me. I went for walks instead of runs, because some form of exercise is better than nothing. I went to class, even if I can't pay attention, because it gets me out of my room. These steps don't cure depression, but they can help me manage my symptoms. In the five years that I've struggled with depression, there were times when, even with these steps, I still couldn't function and I needed more intensive care. The solution cannot always be found in diet, exercise, or self-care. Chronic clinical depression often involves a chemical imbalance that requires some type of medication management.

It's scary to ask for help, and it's not always the most fun to challenge depression's grasp. But it's worth it if it means finding yourself again. No matter how deep I sank, I always resurfaced. Eventually, the bout of depression has always retreated, and I became myself again. It was just a matter hanging on in this hellhole longer than I thought I had the strength to. This illness has taken a lot from me, but it has not taken me. I'm not ashamed of depression because there is no reason to be. It's an illness. Instead of stigmatizing and stereotyping depression, it's time we start to have honest conversations about what the illness really is and what recovery actually looks like. It's the only way to change the way the world views depression and supports people who are struggling.