It's been close to one full year since I last published a post here, and a lot has happened in that year. I have a lot more Facebook friends now than I did when I'd published my last post, between the Flying Spaghetti Monster benefit dinner I helped plan in November and A Week in March.

Not many people know that, after the FSM dinner, I had a breakdown of sorts. I went into a major depressive episode that included suicidal ideation, which I ignored and pretended wasn't as bad as it was for as long as I could because I was determined to not give in to those urges. I eventually ended up unable to get out of bed or communicate with anyone except in situations when it was absolutely unavoidable.

I stopped going to class, answering calls and texts, and interacting on Facebook, though I logged in every day and lurked, scrolling through my news feed without the energy to engage another person in even something as minimal as a "Like." By that time I was so far down I believed that to tell anyone else about my depression would just be a burden on them, and that no one should have to put up with me whining about my first-world problems that I told myself I had no right to feel sad about in the first place because there are other people in the world who have it so much worse than I, which made me hate myself even more for not being able to just suck it up and move on like any "normal" person would.

Then a friend posted Hyperbole and a Half's web comic Adventures in Depression on Facebook, and it amazed me to discover someone else who felt the same way I did, and to read comments from so many others about their own similar experiences. It helped me feel less like some freak and more like a human being experiencing the symptoms of a treatable illness.

I read every post about mental illness in the archives of JT Eberhard's blog and watched the YouTube video of his talk at SSA Con 2012 on the same topic, and read more of Hyperbole and a Half's posts on depression. I listened to Under Pressure on repeat and told myself I would be okay while trying to summon the courage to tell someone what was going on inside my head.

The first person I told was a professor, mostly because there was a project in place of a final that I hadn't even started because I hadn't expected to live that long. When that realization hit home, I knew that it was more serious than I'd previously been willing to admit to myself. I talked to my other professors, finished up finals, lined up my sister and mother to take care of E, and called Netcare.

I was admitted to the crisis center, where I stayed overnight. The next day I was moved to the Crisis Stabilization Unit, where I stayed for four days. It was an overall positive experience, with a few minor exceptions, but those details will have to wait for another time.

After that I began therapy, which at first went alright. The longer I saw this therapist, though, the more I began to dread going; our sessions were mostly taken up by his talking at me (at me, as opposed to to me, or with me), and he frequently misinterpreted the few things I was able to say on any given subject. Then, of course, there was the difference in religious beliefs (in my case a lack thereof), which became taboo for me to discuss in our sessions, though he told stories about his days in Catholic school and once quoted scripture at me. Another time, when trying to convince me to step down as president of my school's Secular Student Alliance (SSA) affiliate group, he said, "even the pope stepped down," to which I didn't have a response. The response that came to me a number of hours later (as usual) involved pointing out that the pope had also covered up a mountain of child sex abuse cases, protecting the offenders rather than the survivors. I have little to no respect for religious figureheads in general, but pope Benedict in particular was one who earned my deepest contempt and loathing through his abhorrent actions (or inaction, as the case may be).

As of now, I've been officially discharged from his care for my failure to make and keep appointment times. Oopsies.

I'm still up and down. I have my good days and bad days. On my good days, I'm able to get at least a few things accomplished. On my bad days, I feel like I'm crumbling from the inside out (when I'm not completely numb, that is). I'm not consistent with anything, least of all completing basic tasks and communicating with others. My main mental health goal right now is to make sure I'm consistently taking my meds and sticking to a somewhat regular routine, as well as being aware of my moods and examining the thoughts that drive them.

Being around kids and animals helps. Even on my lowest days, spending quality time with kids and animals (whether my own or someone else's) is soothing to me; I find it easier to live in the moment and appreciate the little things and all the other platitudes that I can't seem to put into practice on my own.

 Another big help is my amazing boyfriend, whom I've been seeing for a little over two months. He's been so helpful and supportive that I feel confident in my future recovery, even though I still have a long way to go.

I'm putting all of this out there now because I want to add to the growing chorus of individuals with mental illness who are fighting the stigma that society attaches to it. I have so many brave friends and acquaintances who have been willing to speak up about their struggles, and in doing so they've helped me with mine. I'd like to pay it forward; I hope that this rambling post helps someone else living with depression to feel less alone in their struggle.