As I sit in his office, Dr. K. I begin to think of the bullshit that got me here. Almost every time I come to these exhausting appointments, I break down. Getting help never hurt so much. The innocence taken from me, starting when I was young, could never be given back. Boys with their clammy, but still soft hands because they aren’t even old enough to truly sit before a judge on their own and not old enough for their hands to gain callus from working so hard, but old enough to know that touching little girls is... gross. I tell myself I forgive them. But is it true? Is it possible to really forgive boys who took this much from you to where when you walk in an office that society thinks is for crazy people YOU even get stared down. Bitch yes, I’m crazy. But so are you so look away from me before I use the anger that has boiled in me from tragedies like these. Tragedies that make me start to tear up to even be looked at for longer than a glimpse because I can’t fucking stand someone thinking that they have power over my body again. Tragedies that have made me this paranoid. But still, I get up, I go to work, and I make my living. My parents always fussed at me for half- assing things but what else can you do on mornings when you’ve spent the night fighting off those flashbacks that you have yet to get used to after an entire decade and longer? Sometimes, half- assing is all I have the power to do. My obsessive compulsive disorder says brushing your teeth just long enough for you to have the ability to look at the very person you are absolutely disgusted with. My obsessive compulsive disorder screams that it is not long enough to brush my teeth as long as I can stand to see my own wreckage. But my depression... see, she’s something serious. Somehow, she has that optimistic side when it comes to brushing my teeth. She comforts me, “at least you don’t have morning breath anymore. Tastes a little mintier baby girl.” She has a way of comforting me when I know I cannot put forward much. She has a good way of telling me that at least I did a little. She is the definition of manipulation. She will reel you in making you TRY the positive outlook thing, and then she’ll giggle with Anxiety, and wreck your whole fuckin day. Well... is it depression or the optimistic little girl that was never able to rise up? Does she still want to think happy thoughts to get her out of this abyss? She was so honest and gentle and sweet. By middle school, she became the kid that had to do mandatory anger management counseling. The anger harbored in her... in me, and took control. To this day, that sweet, innocent girl is still there, who has learned how to tame the anger a little more, and continues to stay honest and true. She... I mean.. I, I love endlessly. So I think it is true. I think I have forgiven them. But I have not, and never will, forget them. Forgiveness, for me, was personal. Those boys have not been seen since before I hit double digits, so what would they even gain from MY forgiveness? It was and still is, all for me. I forgive them so that I can forgive myself because in this mentality bestowed upon me... I blame myself. This is reality. No matter how many people say it’s not my fault or I could not control it, my mind will tell me that somehow my young, tiny, weak body could have done more. And I know, if the world ended today...it would be my fault.

Chapter 1

I’m not a psychologist, but this is an attempt to analyze and apply neurology to depression. Although it might seem to be an apathetic approach, I think it’s better in the long run to work with what we can work with instead of pretending we can help or make attempts that don’t seem to be working. We can try, but logic and analysis make up the backbone to the chaotic sea of emotions.

After my first son was born I battled with serious Postpartum Depression for over one year. Just when I thought I could finally see light again, I got a positive pregnancy test result. My guts shrivelled up inside. I knew this wasn’t going to be an easy pregnancy.

One of my passions is mental health. I’ve worked in the mental health sector for almost twelve years. The knowledge I have earned has been incredible with regard to my awareness an involvement in changing lives. Witnessing individuals managing with their troubles due to you is a rewarding occurrence. Nonetheless, there has been negative factors that I have recognised in jobs, friendship groups, families, society and culture. I pray for a shift as a person mentally ill only seeks support and a listening ear.

Depression is partly phenomenological (relating to direct experience instead of abstract conceptions) and partly biochemical. Both systems influence each other in a feedback loop, meaning both systems can act as cause and symptom.

Definition of notion (1): an individual's conception or impression of something known, experienced, or imagined (2): an inclusive general concept Definition of hunch (3): a strong intuitive feeling concerning especially a future event or result

One day you can wake up and feel empty. You feel like you are nothing and will never accomplish your goals or provide for yourself or your family. That is just a part of this field. You have no guarantee of getting the income you need to survive, but that may just be enough motivation for you to ensure it happens. It has been for me, at times.

I admired the bridge as I drove across it and thought to myself, this would be a great place to jump and die. It has been nearly a decade since I thought about killing myself. Back then, I thought about suicide more than I thought about my children.

Coming to terms with my mental health has been an ongoing battle for as long as I can remember. I can vividly remember stumbling through life, feeling stuck in a deep hole at just 12 years old. I didn’t know what I was feeling was not normal, no one talked about preteens and the possibility of them being depressed or struggling with their mental health. Yet, there I was fighting depression. And instead of acknowledging it and working toward getting help I chalked it up to me being too sensitive and I needed to get over it. After a few years I started high school and threw myself into getting involved in hopes that keeping busy would keep me occupied. And it did. But I also managed to find people that were overwhelmingly supportive and helped me to get through the darkest times. It was during this time that I found someone that was my warrior, constantly trying to help me discuss what was going on and educate me. She took it upon herself to try to help me understand and label my mental illness. Of course, I was very hesitant to admit that I was struggling, and it usually led to fights. However, she didn’t give up on pushing me and eventually I decided to suck it up and come to terms with the fact that something wasn’t quite right. This was devastating. I didn’t want to be labeled, and sure as hell didn’t want to have to tell anyone what I was going through. Just her. She could be the only person that knew. I couldn’t tell my parents, not my friends, I didn’t want to be the “crazy one” in the family or in my friend group. So, I kept it to myself and didn’t tell anyone.

With one in four people affected by mental illness at some point in their lives, you’ve likely already dealt with mental illness in your personal life or known someone who has. Having a mental disorder is more common than many think and the taboo surrounding discussion on mental disorders often prevents many from seeking treatment.