About the Author

I've known about my depression longer than my medical records would suggest. It took a while for me to talk to my doctor about it because I didn't think it mattered. There are people in the world with far worse tribulations. It's not that I feel sad 24 hours a day, necessarily. Some days, sure. But depression is multidimensional. It's not just a gray sky; there are layers of creamy mauve and navy and craters in the ground and cracks of brazen sunshine. People close to me have told me everything from my depression not being real, to me not "seeming" depressed, or that a glass of orange juice should do the trick.

Well, shit, excuse me.

(Check out the incredible portfolio of Clara Lieu for more moving depictions of mental illness.)

These people mean well, hoping their insight might relieve me of a weight they don't understand. But that's just it, right? They don't understand it. Their sky is cast by their own circumstances. I listened to these people for years because I knew they loved me and because I felt guilty about my sadness. Here's a little context: My dad's mother committed suicide early in his life. His sky was painted in a way that suggested depression will take someone's life sooner than later. My depression gnaws at my life at a different velocity because each manifestation of depression is different. He told me that I have a good life so I have no reason to be sad.

The first thing you need to know is you can't diagnose (1) a person you don't understand and (2) a condition you don't understand. Chances are: You can't diagnose me period because you're not my fucking doctor. Boom, pow, splat, done.

Growing up, I listened to people whom I gave authority over my own convictions because I didn't trust or even really know myself. Time crept by and I couldn't ignore the craters anymore. I finally listened to myself. I talked to my doctor, received a diagnosis, and woowww I could breathe again! With a professional diagnosis comes treatment.

We need to be careful about how we refer to our depression. It's important to maintain a syntax that separates the self from the condition. When we are new to a diagnosis, we uncover the ways we can manage what we're dealing with and maybe feel closer to understanding what's going on inside of us. But one thing we are not is our condition.

I am not Depressed. I have depression.

There were times when I tried to wean myself off my medication either because of shame or because of an assumed transformation. I thought I'd opened up my sky to immortal sunlight, but what followed was a long-ass drop back down to where I was before.

I was talking to a friend one day about my worry that the person I am on my medication isn't the real me. I worried that I was just a vessel for the chemical reaction this pill forged in my brain. He asked me an important question, though. Did this medication mask my true self, or did it unwrap my true self? I meditated on that and digested it. Depression is just a leech that craves the flavor of my disposition. It is not and never will be my identity.

In the posts to follow, I plan to share some tools that have helped me deal with my depression. There are also psychological theories I will draw from in order to explain where I'm coming from and where my depression was born. My hope is that you can connect with some personal accounts and benefit from the management techniques I've acquired over the years. I'm not a doctor (yet), but I want to make myself available to anybody who needs a little help.

Take care, friends! Talk soon :)