I thought that I was just tired. Then I got more tired.

Once I realised that something was wrong, things had already gone horribly wrong. So wrong that I thought that the only way to end the pain was to end my life.

At the hospital I had two options: either get better, or die. At the time it was much scarier to keep on living.

Here I am a year later, alive and still recovering but ready to share my story, with my own name, with my own face.

This is in a vague hope to help someone else: someone battling with their own invisible illness, scared, ashamed or embarrassed, someone looking to understand a loved one, someone who thinks that this isn’t at its worst a terminal illness.

Every depression is different, though. This is just mine.

As many as one in four people suffer from depression. Still there is a stigma surrounding it. I tell my story in order to break at least some of it.

I’m not afraid, or ashamed. Every word in this blog is true, even though all the names but mine have been changed. They haven’t chosen to be a part of my story.

The posts in this blog are not in any chronological order, because I’m still in recovery and my mind doesn’t work like that. I just get an idea and verbally vomit here. I also swear a lot. Sound good?

I could be dead but I’m alive. I could be quiet but I’m not. If someone has to speak up in order to help at least one person, it might as well be me.