Hey.

High school's rough, isn't it? I get that. College is pretty rough, too.

I know your mental health sucks. It's been something you've struggled with since middle school. But you struggled with it silently.

Except for that one time when you were up until 3am, staring at the wall in your bedroom, all the lights on. Your homework was sitting on your desk. You knew it had to get done, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it. Mom saw you were still awake and came into the room. She yelled at you, told you to do your homework and go to sleep. You almost broke down in tears. You said, "I can't do it." And mom said, "then I'm calling your counselor in the morning and you're going to figure this out." She left. You cried. You shoved your unfinished homework into your backpack, crawled into bed, and cried yourself to sleep.

At 7am, you woke up for school. Mom came into your room three times to tell you to get up. Every single time, she sounded annoyed. It was hard for you to move. It was hard to open your eyes. You glanced over at the clock, and it was 7:05. You heard mom coming up the stairs again, so before she had a chance to yell, you got out of bed. The first thing you did was look in the mirror. Your hair was greasy. Your skin was bad. You hated what you saw, so you threw on some too-big jeans (when did that happen?) and an old t-shirt and put your hair in a ponytail. Why make the effort to look good when you didn't feel good?

You went through your day at school as you always did: pretending you're OK. You would say hi to your friends, put a smile on your face, crack some jokes--to everyone around you, nothing was wrong. No one noticed that you would sometimes sit in the library during lunch by yourself because you either had no appetite or no one showed up to sit with you. (There's nothing more depressing than eating a PB&J sandwich by yourself in the cafeteria.) No one noticed that you were dressing sloppier everyday. And no one noticed that the bracelets you wore were only there to cover up something else.

The only different thing about this day was your counselor hunted you down. She found you in the library, and told you to follow her to her office. When you sat down by her desk, she asked you what's been going on. You lied and said, "nothing." She told you that mom called. "She said you're not doing your homework and that you seem a little down." You took a minute to respond. Down? Was that her way of saying "depressed?" Do you tell your counselor how you feel? What's going to happen if you tell her that you feel fucking sad all the time? You were scared, so you lied again: "I feel fine. I'm just really tired."

Your counselor proceeded to give you a 10 question "depression" test. As you went through it, you realized none of the questions applied to you. Most of them had to do with sexual tendencies, and all you could think was, "what the fuck does my non-existent sex life have to do with anything? All I know is I'm 16 years old and I'm sad for no reason." So you circled the answers that best described you, and (ta-da) you were pronounced depression-free. You walked out of that office more pissed than sad.

When you got home, you told mom that your meeting went well. Apparently your counselor had already called, saying you weren't depressed, you just needed to figure out a plan to get your homework done in a timely manner so you could get enough sleep. She also said you're a teenager and it's normal for you to feel like this. You just nodded, not saying a word, and went to your room. You lived that way for the next year and a half, if not more.

So, 16-year-old me, why did you suffer in silence? Why did you willingly choose to be sad and lonely and closed-off to the world? Because when you were vocal, it got you nowhere. That 3am "I can't do it" was a cry for help. (A pathetic one, nonetheless, but it was still one.)

And, well, from mom's yelling and your counselor's "official" conclusion that you were just a moody teenager, you were afraid of being judged. You were afraid that no one would look at you the same. Every time you opened your mouth to say, "I think I'm depressed," you almost broke down in tears--it was just hard to talk about your feelings when you've never done it before. You were a closed-off person, so it's understandable that you didn't want to tell anyone anything. Sometimes, especially in your household, it's easier to pretend everything is OK.

But you didn't have to pretend.

Mom would still love you if you told her what was going on. You could have gotten professional help if you had told your counselor everything you felt. Your friends (hopefully) wouldn't have gone anywhere. Admitting you needed help would have caused you less pain in the long-run.

Past self, I'm sorry I didn't get you help. If it makes you feel better, I'm still afraid to seek help. There are days when I'm still sad and lonely and I don't want to exist, but I promise if I'm ever near or at my all time low again*, I will get help (even though it scares me).

Love,

Rachel

*The situation described in this letter is not my lowest point; that's a whole other story.