I get a lot of questions about what exactly depression and anxiety feel like when I tell someone that I suffer from both, and to be honest, I don’t always tell the entire truth. Most of the time, I tell them that anxiety is like being what people call a “worrier,” but on steroids. You’re nervous, about everything, all of the time. I tell them that depression is sudden periods of disinterest and sadness, usually triggered by certain conversation topics or times of the year. For me, this isn’t true.

My anxiety isn’t nerves. It’s not me worrying about something, like a friend of mine on a long drive, my grades, or a big performance coming up. My anxiety shows up at almost any given time, and it’s not just me sweating or feeling nauseous, it’s a complete physical shut down. My entire body gets cold, everything starts tingling like your feet when they fall asleep, breathing is just about impossible, and I’m on the edge of passing out. I once had an orchestra conductor have to pick me up off of the bathroom floor when I disappeared from rehearsal for almost 20 minutes. I can’t predict when it’s going to happen, and I can very rarely stop an attack once it’s started. Every time I have an anxiety attack, I have to learn how to breathe all over again.

My depression isn’t sadness. It’s like having a hole in me, and not the pleasant ‘Alice in Wonderland’ version, either. It’s as though there’s constantly this dark place in the center of my head, and if I think about any of my shit long enough, I get stuck there. I never need a reason, and once I’m there, getting out is like climbing a mental Mt. Everest. My whole body closes itself off to everything. I have zero interest in participating in daily life. I don’t want to eat, drink, or interact with anyone. I miss all of my classes and work shifts, and no matter how much I tell myself that I want to be a teacher, and I have to do this to be one, I just sit there. My head gets wrapped around everything that’s ever happened to me or that I’ve ever done, and I’m trapped by myself. It’s the main reason I don’t tend to tell people the worst things about myself; I hate thinking about them. I hate seeing myself as that person, and I hate when anyone else does. I want to be happy, bubbly, and excited about life, but sometimes, I’m just not. I’m empty.

Hiding from my mental illness has gotten me nowhere, and it’s probably done far more harm than good. The reason I’m writing this is because I never want anyone to feel the way that I do about myself. I have a friend who asks “why?” when I tell her that I love her, and the reason I love her is because of everything that she is, including her mental illness. To me, she’s flawless. So are you.