Searching for Happiness . . . .

Every morning I wake up, brush my teeth, eat some yogurt, and then take two very important pink pills. Without these two pink pills the first three parts of my morning would be an incredibly difficult ordeal.

My name is Stella and I am depressed. On the outside no one would ever think that I was a depressed type. But that is the sneaky thing about depression - it hits those you wouldn't expect and it hits each of us differently. I am very open about my illness (and that is what it is) hoping to inspire others to open up, inspire others to not treat mental illness as taboo, and to inspire others to seek help.

I grew up in a lovely household with two parents who are still married. They were devoted to me and their marriage. We never lacked anything in my household. I had hot food on a cold day, a cozy bed, and plenty of toys. I saw the world before I was 20. I had a very good education and achieved high grades. I live in a pretty house with pretty things. I have lots of friends and a very loving boyfriend. All these things put together made my friends skeptical that I could ever be sad.

But I was, and still am from time to time. Depression sneaks up on you like a dark shadow on a blustery autumn night. At first it comes for short visits that leave you broken and shattered - but still strong enough to put back those pieces. Then it comes for more and more visits, and - like a nasty house guest - stays well past its welcome and eats all of your chocolate. And one day you wake up and depression is laying with you in bed. It gets up and brushes its teeth. It eats the yogurt. You try to outsmart it by appearing happy and together. This is exhausting - so that in private moments you can't move or with those you hold very very dear you start to unfold your true self.

One day I knew that when I threw a tantrum that left me huddled and sobbing in my shower, things were not normal. By this time I had gone to the therapy, talked with the friends, walked through the woods. So came my big decision, it was time for medication.

Medication is a bad word like mental illness. Once you fill that prescription you are admitting failure on some level. I could not take care of this with words or sounds, I could not rid this shadow from my body. That is what I thought. But walking through the city with a small piece of paper in my hands I suddenly felt liberated and free. When he handed over my bottle of pink (yes, they are pink) pills I held them with a knowledge that I would come back to myself.

Three weeks later I sat by a lake in the last days of summer. As I watched the sun dance on the water and heard the far off laughter and splashing of children I woke up. A fog that I was so used to that I could barely feel it, lifted. I saw life again and saw the beauty and the wonder. I felt like the girl before. The girl who went into hiding.

So I talk and tell this to people. Because there are lots of sad (or anxious or panicky) people out there who need help but are ashamed. I urge you to set yourself free.