It is hard for me to write about something when I am in the middle of it. It is hard to see clearly and form cohesive thoughts when my brain is going in a million different directions. It is hard to write about something you don't want to talk about. But, I have to. So, I will start at a beginning of sorts.

It was a beautiful night. The air was warm and slightly heavy, smelling of warm earth and lush foliage. The car I was driving was abuzz with voices and laughter. I couldn't shake this enigmatic feeling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't describe it or pinpoint it. Just a feeling of dread. I knew, somehow, that my life would change that night, something terrible was going to happen.

I maneuvered the small VW over the rutty dirt road, trying to keep up with the car in front of me. I had no idea where we were going and didn't want to get lost. I kept the headlights fixed on the cloud of dirt that indicated that we were not far behind. I turned up the radio so I could sing along, still trying to shake the feeling that had nagged at me all evening.

My mind was all over the place. Irrational thoughts kept flashing into my head, like lighting during a storm. Then, out of nowhere, like a wave, a rush, I couldn't breath. My chest had tightened and my heart was racing. I tried to swallow and I couldn't. Without a word I pulled the car over and got out. I remember sitting on the hood, people talking to me, my mind swirling in a fuzzy frenzy.

The next thing I remember is being in the emergency room, shaking uncontrollably, more scared than I had ever been before.

I was told that there was nothing wrong with me physically. That I had likely had a reaction to Novocaine from dental work that I had done a day earlier. I was humiliated and afraid. I knew it wasn't from Novocaine, that diagnosis seemed dismissive. However, I had no idea what had happened, just that I never wanted it to happen again.

A few weeks later I was sitting in a movie theater. 45 minutes into the movie and it happened again. My chest got tight; I couldn't breath, my heart and mind raced. I was convinced that I was dying. My heart was giving up. I fled the theater and sat on the sidewalk, trying to breath, trying to focus on anything but what was happening in my body. Someone had called an ambulance. When the paramedics arrived they checked my pulse and swiftly loaded me up. My heart rate was borderline dangerous. Off I went to the ER, once again.

I was hooked up to multiple wires and machines. They tested blood and urine. Everything pointed to a healthy 18 year old. I left with no answers, just skeptical looks from medical professionals and one frightened mind that would not quiet itself. The next day I made an appointment to see my doctor. That is when I heard the words that would change everything. My diagnosis.

Depressive Anxiety Disorder with Severe Panic Disorder and Agoraphobia. In an instant everything and nothing made sense. I felt like a weight had been lifted but something even heavier had been dropped in my lap. There was no more denying that something was wrong. All I wanted to do was run away. Pretend like I had not told anyone my secrets. Close the door and let the skeletons stay safely inside. I was relieved and mortified. I was scared and hopeful. I was confused and had never felt so alone in my life.

I developed habits that are very common amongst people who struggle with what I do. Little things that when added together make for yet another diagnosis. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I was collecting diagnosis. For every one I felt a little less worthy. How could one person be so flawed? What did I do to deserve this? I was in my darkest hour and still was trying to hide it from the world. There were days that I wanted nothing more than to quiet my mind and give up. It would take me years to realize that I did nothing wrong and that there is beauty in being “flawed” and I was worth fighting for.

That began one of the toughest and longest fights I have known. 16 years later into it and I am still fighting. Medications have helped. Some brought relief, some exterminated my emotions all together. Even more did nothing at all. I have been through talk therapy, bio-feedback therapy, and cognitive behavioral therapy. I have practiced coping and prevention techniques. I have lost friends, jobs, self esteem and relationships. I have beaten myself up and withdrawn. I have been angry and upset. I have struggled and I have prayed. But, I have not given up.

I managed to get well enough to have a relationship, get married, be happy. But this happiness that I had, that I have, it is holding on by a thread. I live every day with the knowledge that tomorrow could bring the storm clouds. That the light will fade and I will succumb to darkness. Everyday is a struggle. I have to fight against fear and an instinct to hide. I have to force myself out of my comfort zone.

My pregnancy with my daughter brought relief. I worried less and lived more. Her birth kept me going but I could feel the pull of postpartum depression. A nagging feeling that tried to seduce me to the darkness. I forced myself through it. I forced myself out of the house. I had been there before, I know once I make the choice to let this storm win, I may not ever see the light again.

Being a mom has brought a whole new dimension to my illness. My chronic worry is not solely focused on myself. I worry about my daughter. I worry for her health, I worry for her safety. I worry for her future. I worry that she will struggle with what I do. I worry that written in her genes is a fate that I wouldn't wish on anyone. I struggle with leaving her. With letting someone else take her out of my sight. The moment she leaves the “what ifs” fill my head.

The irrational fears become too much. It is easier to keep her near. I stay home. I make excuses. I avoid. It is easier to avoid. But I am running out of excuses. I am getting exhausted fighting nature. My nature, as messed up and irrational as it is.

This past summer was another turning point for me. I sunk as deep into depression as I ever have. My anxiety soared. I lost my confidence that i had worked my ass off to build. I could feel my grasp on everything loosening. I retreated, I detached. I found myself in a very dark place and I couldn't find the light.

Luckily I have an amazing husband and daughter. They helped to show me what I am worth. What I am capable of. I got a chance to see myself through their eyes and it was incredible. Struggling like I do is so isolating. Painfully isolating. But it shouldn't be. I should be allowed to talk about it. For myself, for others who have yet to find their voice. It is time put aside the hyperbole and talk about it frankly. I am not here to romanticize depression. It fucking sucks. It sucks to feel sad. It sucks to feel afraid. It sucks to feel helpless and alone. It sucks to feel like a stigma. It sucks to want to be better but not know how. It all sucks and no one should feel that way.

My disorders are a part of my story. A part I have never told before. A part that I try to hide out of fear. I will no longer keep them hidden. I will no longer allow fear to guide me because I need to. It is time. I am tired of feeling ashamed. I am sick of the stigma attached to mental illness and disorders. I am done trying to hide who I am. I have to accept me for me. I will never be the kind of person who can just roll with the punches. It is not how I am built. But I am built to fight. I am built to face my demons head on. I deserve better than to succumb. I owe it to my daughter. I owe it to my husband. But, most importantly, I owe it to myself.