“Something is wrong with me. My chest feels hollow, I don’t want to get out of bed, I don’t think I wanna be here anymore.” – An excerpt from my diary at 14.

I am mentally ill.

This is something that is hard for me to admit to, because I’m not one that really talks about my mental health. Even in therapy, I avoid actually talking about my mental health like the plague. But it’s time for me to not be afraid of something that is such a big part of me, so here I am to say, I am mentally ill.

I first knew something was different about me when I was in second grade. While everyone else would run around on the playground, talking in their little groups, I would sit as my chest clenched and my little hands shook, terrified of being around all these people and noises. It wasn’t that I was shy or timid, I had an actual anxiety about being around other people. Even at home I would lock myself in my room and read my books, because people genuinely caused me to panic. 

Though this would later be diagnosed as generalized anxiety disorder and panic disorder, all I knew was that I was terrified all the time. I still am, my mind is a never ending loop of anxious thoughts of ‘what-ifs’  and ‘why’d I say that.’ No matter what I do, I still have crippling anxiety about the world around me. 

I wish my mental health story started and ended with anxiety, but that would make life a little too easy for me. Instead, I was diagnosed with two mood disorders and it’s a very difficult thing to handle, especially the depression.

The best way that I can explain how depression feels to me, is that it feels as if someone carved a hollow hole into my chest and is scooping every ounce of happiness that was once there. The numbness that started in my head, soon envelopes my entire body till I can barely breathe. I fight with my dark thoughts for hours on end, till I lay in bed with no motivation to speak or live.

Living with depression is probably one of the hardest things someone can do. It’s a daily struggle that I am still trying to learn how to cope with. Even with the medication my psychiatrist prescribed me, I still have my bad days.

Destiny Torres is an opinion writer. Contact her at [email protected]