For over four years, I’ve been openly and honestly talking about living with depression.
Depression that has affected me since I was 13 years old.
Depression that came and went, came and went… came and went.
Depression that led to attempted suicide at 16 years old and twice at 27.
Depression that still exists and still affects me to this day.
Depression that doesn’t define me or own me.
Depression that I own, embrace, manage, and talk about.
As long as I have air in my lungs and a voice in my mouth, I’ll talk about it.
Because I’m proud of my story. I’m proud of what I’ve been through. I’m proud of the lessons I’ve learned through the pain. There isn’t a fiber in my being that’s ashamed of the fact that I’ve tried to end my life, that I have a mental illness, that I’m not perfect.