By: Maddie Quinonez
I realized I was depressed during my junior year in high school. Depressed. This word has become a common adjective people throw around to describe everyday emotions. “I’m depressed because I didn’t get to see that concert,” or “Wow that movie was so depressing.” Today, the word depressed, although highly stigmatized when used appropriately, has somehow creeped into our everyday colloquialisms.
But I was depressed. Clinically diagnosed, receiving treatment, taking an immense amount of medications. I spent my days in school creeping along to the dismissal bell, putting my head down, simply trying to survive. That was a word I used often in my darkest moments. I was just trying to survive, and sometimes I did not know if I would. My world was twirling and crashing, and when depression is paired with severe anxiety, you get a destructive blend of self sabotage and intense helplessness. I was having severe panic attacks almost every night — my mom would have to hold me down and tell me that I, in fact, was safe and that I, in fact, was not going to die. I was terrified of things that confused me, which made me even more terrified.
My mind started playing tricks on me, and at one point, I believed every negative statement that I threw at myself.
Until I didn’t.
Now, don’t get me wrong, this process was not overnight, and it was not easy in any sense of the word. But I worked. I worked harder than I ever worked before. I wanted to give up so many times, I wanted to succumb to the numbness. But I didn’t. And if I had allowed my mind and body to lose to the war inside me, I guarantee I would not be here, right now, sharing my story with whoever cares to read it.
Strength, that’s what it took. Perseverance. Support (shoutout to my mama — she went through hell and back with me). At one point, I felt like I even needed to be naïve to what I was dealing with just so I could squint to see that tiny little light at the end of the tunnel. But I got closer and closer, and that tiny light turned into a brightly shining beam, warmly welcoming me into a new part of my life, to a new version of myself. I survived. I am a survivor.
At one of my last therapy sessions with my counselor at home before I came to college, I was talking to her about one word I wanted to use to label my story. I am as Type A as you can get and I love putting things in boxes;). But the word I use is survivor. Anyone is a survivor. Anyone can be a survivor. I am a survivor.
Everyone has their stories, their journeys, and each one is different. But because of my journey, I am stronger, more optimistic, more motivated than ever before. I work everyday to end the stigma against mental health. I work everyday to maintain my mental health, it doesn’t’t just end. I worked in a way that allows me to sustain a healthy balance in my life, and while it ebbs and flows, I always know that in the end I will be okay, and that I need to keep working.
In high school I guarantee you would look at me and assume my life was perfect, but no one knew the battle I was fighting, the war going on inside me. But that’s the thing, no one is perfect, everyone struggles at one point or another, and everyone has a story to them. So I’m calling everyone to do one thing: listen. Hear someone’s story. Validate the struggle. Talk about mental health. Speak carefully. Offer your heart, your shoulder, your ear. Walk along those who feel like they’re walking alone. End the stigma, if not for yourself, then for me.
If you or anyone you know is struggling, never hesitate to reach out for help. Help comes in all different forms:
Crisis Textline: text HOME to 741741
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
Crisis Hotline: 866-4CRISIS