I have depression. That is still so hard to admit. I was told in August of 2013..officially at least. I honestly had known for much longer than that. When I used to think about people having depression I always assumed there was a reason. Something dramatic like a death of a friend or family member, something traumatic, I don’t know something. Looking back on my life, I can see my depression scattered along my golden path. I had it really bad in fifth grade and I’m sure I had it a little before that. Did anything big happen in my life happen when I was a mere eleven years old? No. Absolutely nothing. I was head strong and fought with my parents, but nothing worthy of depression. When I was diagnosed with moderate to severe clinical depression last August, I had a lot going on in my life and I suppose from the outside looking in it made complete sense. It absolutely tore me apart. It still does. It kills me to know I have it, I fight allowing even some of closest friends from knowing and in their happy oblivion, they are more than happy to not think twice about it. I have depression. I have had depression since I was young. I will most likely have depression when I am old. That has to be okay. I am not okay. I am not fine, but the fact that I have depression is. The fact that millions of people are fighting their own hell, their own version of their depression, is something that should motivate me. I don’t deserve this, but neither does anyone else. I don’t like this, but neither does anyone else. I have depression and that has to be okay.