I never talk about my mental illness, so much so that friends I’ve known for a while become shocked when they find out about the three different medications I have to take everyday just to function as a normal human being. I don’t talk about it, but it’s there, lurking.

When I was 17, my depression was at its all-time high. I stopped caring about the things and people I loved, my grades dropped significantly, and I could barely bring myself to do anything. I started self-harming, but luckily that didn’t last very long. I just remember being frustrated all the time, frustrated that this was my life, that I wasn’t who I wanted to be, that all the different medications I tried weren’t working. It took me a long time to get my life back on track, give or take a few bumps in my personal life that didn’t exactly help.

But, I’m okay now--I’m better. I’ve somehow managed to get into a credible and enormous university. I’ve made Dean’s list, I have great friends and roommates, and I’m still here, kicking away. There were times when I never thought I would be able to pull myself out of my debilitating depression. Most days I would just sit on the couch and stare at the wall, or go to sleep every chance I could get, or randomly burst into tears, all of which had no logical reasoning behind them.

Sometimes it’s difficult to remember the person I was back then--always pining, always miserable, carrying around a fist-sized knot in my stomach and a chemical imbalance in my head. I wish I could get back the time I lost. Instead of living my life, I sat around wanting and wishing to die.

After going to three different therapists, and experimenting with a long list of antidepressants, I’ve finally found the treatment that’s right for me. But this doesn’t mean I’m cured. So many people assume that medication is a quick fix for chronic depression, but it’s so much more complicated than that. I had to alter the way I was thinking and I had to learn to stop feeding my sadness.

Throughout that time in my life, I watched so many horribly sad films and listened to an ungodly amount of Radiohead. Doing this only further triggered me, pushing me farther and farther down the black hole I had already buried myself in. But now, I can listen to sad songs and not completely fall to pieces. I can lift myself back up when I get in a rut.

Getting better is not magically being cured by taking a tiny pill or going to a few sessions of therapy. It’s a progress that I continue to endure everyday. Somedays, I still can’t focus. Sometimes I still feel empty and worthless and as if am I just a fraud. Yet, most days I’m actually happy and full of as much hope as my snarky personality can permit. It’s no longer a struggle to get out of bed in the morning, and I no longer dread every aspect of my life. I am functioning and productive and alive.

This is what it looks like to be ‘better'.