So, you and depression?

I was suicidal.
I was depressed.
I refused to tell anyone.

Depression was in the distance
until it wasn't,
until it took up space right next me,
dug in, and held on.
It wouldn't leave.

Pain outweighed reason.
I found myself in front of a computer, searching,
looking, hoping to end it, all of it.
This is how close my father's disease got to me.
I had it. I lived it.

And I eventually asked for help.

I was never clinically diagnosed;
I did not want to be.
I couldn't handle a label,
I could barely handle life.
I suffered, quietly,
living in pain for many, many reasons.
Those reasons were very real.
They always are.

I wanted to be free.

I picked up a phone.
I made an appointment.
I circled a calendar date and
started to tell my story,
all of it,
or as much as I could.

And years later, I've finally discovered that
the truth,
the painful ugly truth
is the story that will kill us
or free us.

Sharing my story is what saved me.
It made room for people,
for help,
for change.

And while I realize this is an easy thing to write,
and read,
and even tell...
it is another thing entirely to
live.

So that is me,
and depression.
It was never the end.

It was the
beginning.