I don't like talking about this.

Then again, does anyone?

Talking about it confirms that I've felt it. It solidifies all of the monstrous thoughts that have haunted my brain and pushed them out into the open for the world to see -- a world that includes my family, friends and peers.

I don't like talking about this.

But I have to. Lately, I've been opening up in my pieces, putting raw honesty onto a platform that is also used for listicles and entertainment reviews, for satire and open letters. Everyone has found their niche on this site, and a personal window into my life seems to be mine.

For this reason, it's only natural that at some point, this subject be brought into the light. When something impacts you for nearly five of your formative years, it has an impact on the person you become. It is a part of my story that I cannot redact or gloss over. But because I know people I love will read this article and feel hurt and frustration, I want to preface with this:

My depression does not define me; it helped shape my identity. Just like every moment I've spent with the people I love, just like my education, just like the place I grew up in -- it is simply a part of my story, not all of it.

I spent many of my high school years lost. I felt like nothing mattered, that the world was hopeless and that I had nothing to offer, no way to change it. I had fallen into a deep hole of depression, one to the extent of which most people who knew me at that time had no idea. I spent time in the hospital and went to therapy for a year, and got to the point where I felt the hopelessness was just something I had to deal with. I wasn't sad anymore; I wasn't even bitter. I was just ... there.

When I started my senior year, things looked up. I found a love for politics, teachers who brought a passion for learning back into my life, and friends that loved me unconditionally. I delved into hundreds of scholarship applications and got accepted to an amazing school in one of my favorite cities -- the one at which I am sitting writing this article. I joined as many activities as I could physically handle and took more credits than I was allowed. I loved every minute of my life, even the painful parts, and I felt like I'd found who I was by the time I walked across the stage.

That feeling ran strong through summer, even though I missed home, through Welcome Week at school. I explored Chicago with awe and wonder, though most of the time alone, because I was amazed at the endless opportunities I found. I went on dates, got my first internship at a political campaign, and joined student government. I met a few friends and made an unbreakable bond with my roommate. I signed up for a January trip to New York. Everything seemed to be looking up when I flew back home for Christmas break.

Christmas break was busy for a while, but it flew by, and before I knew it I was on the train to New York City, feeling unstoppable. But the week ended far too quickly, and I was soon back in Chicago, starting a new internship and preparing for my classes.

That's when it hit me that everything was changing. I had left student government to take a class, my new internship was way more demanding, and the courses I had signed up for were much more advanced. I felt like I was back in my high school bedroom, curled up under my sheets and unable to find a reason to get up again.

I can't explain the hollowness that depression gives you to someone who has never felt it. It's a physical hurt; it aches and makes you feel hundreds of pounds heavier. Anyone who has watched it happen will understand the difficulties of loving someone whose brain has convinced them they are incapable of feeling anything.

I confided in my best friend and roommate as much as I could. They did everything in their power to bring happiness to my life, and I tried everything I could to escape what I was feeling. I binged on movies and TV shows with my roommates and our friends, I met new people ... but nothing seemed to end the hopelessness.

Whenever I called my mom, our conversations lasted 15 minutes instead of the usual hours because I felt like I had nothing to talk about. Writing felt like a chore instead of a natural process. I opted for laying on the couch all day instead of talking to my friends. I didn't even feel like eating anything anymore. And the feeling didn't go away when I got up in the morning.

The hardest part about falling back into depression was that this time, I remembered what the good times felt like.

So I made a vow. I was not going to lose another year of my life to mental illness. I was going to find a way out.

And I did.

A month later, I can't say I'm 100 percent back on top, but I am feeling like a person again. After I took a trip to Iowa to cover the caucus, I felt like I had my purpose again. I go out with my friends. I put effort into my homework. I even have an exciting project in the works.

I don't know what comes next. I don't know when depression will sneak up on me again. But I know that time and the people that care about me have the power to make things easier, and that the hopelessness will end.

And, trust me, it will end for you, too.

There is a beautiful world out there waiting for you to see it. Take the time to heal and take care of yourself. It will be waiting for you when you're ready.