Okay

I’ve had depression for a fairly long time.

I think I was diagnosed when I was twelve or thirteen, and I’ve been on some type of anti-depressant ever since then. It’s strange, but quite frankly, I don’t think it even matters how I came to be diagnosed with depression or what lead up to it. It doesn’t matter whether or not it was born of a maticulous series biological reactions or whether it was imposed by a series of events that lead up to a breaking point. None of that matters, and perhaps none of it will ever matter.

What matters is that I am where I am.

I’m twenty-four now, and I’ve been suffering from depression for roughly the last twelve years of my life. I know, it seems like a long time. And yes, it is a long time, but time has a way of shifting unnoticeably through the series of events that have occupied my life, so when I say twelve years, it’s more like I’ve lived my life for twelve years rather than being subjected to depression for twelve years.

Yeah, that’s a pretty positive way to look at it, and if I were the same person I were back when I was first diagnosed, I’m sure my perception of the world would be significantly different than how I’m currently viewing it. That’s not to say that I don’t have bad days though. It comes and goes just like it always has, but I have the strength to control, to some extent, how much I let it consume me. And I say the word "consume" because during those bad days, the days where even my twelve years of experience begin to waiver, all of life seems to eat at me, and I begin to lose sight of who I am and what’s important. These are the days when it becomes painful to find meaning in my existence.

Luckily, these days have become extremely rare.

Luckily, I’m still okay.

I hope it stays this way.