I’ve decided that I had my midlife crisis already. Being 15 years old, it was a bit unexpected to say the least. I hoped it would’ve been a while before I had to reevaluate my whole life. I knew that I wasn’t exactly normal, but realizing that practically every aspect of my life had been affected by mental illness for at least half my life was quite a revelation. It was a bit of a double edged sword, figuring it all out. On one hand I finally had an explanation for practically everything in my life, but on the other it was a realization that made me feel broken. Broken. Not the right word to describe yourself when something’s going wrong. I felt exponentially worse every time I thought about it.

So, what made me finally understand? What made me realize? Summer, after my freshman year of high school, and I thought I was fine. I always thought so. Time away from school should’ve been relaxing, a time to not worry about anything, right? Wrong, apparently. Alas, summer is a season of free time, and figuring out how to use it made something painfully clear. I faced an obstacle in my path to turning free time into an enjoyable summer. Now, I knew that turning every second of my free time into an enjoyable moment wasn’t feasible, nobody can make their entire summer memorable. It’s ok to have a bit of down time during vacation. The thing for me was I noticed had a little too much down time, and there was nothing to do about it. I finally had time to do things I wanted, but nothing really seemed like it would be interesting enough to do anymore, and even if something did pique my interest it didn’t last. About a month into summer vacation and it had felt as though my batteries had broken. I noticed I was drained of energy much faster than previously, and I found myself needing to recharge for longer through sleep. In a normal summer I was up and ready to go around 8 or 9 in the morning, but that year I found myself consistently staying in bed at least til 11 or 12 even though I’ve been awake for a few hours. There was no drive to get up. As the summer went on, it became evident that my newfound lack of motivation had became quite the detriment due to the ever present deadline for summer homework, which I had not even started. I didn’t know what I was doing.

The big revelation came towards the very end of summer, before school started. I was curious about social anxiety, a problem I knew I had been dealing with for some time but I had denied forever. I read some articles about it, finally began to come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t the best with people. Fine. The real issue struck when I noticed a common point made in each article I read, a particular comorbidity that I really did not want to see. At my next doctor’s appointment I addressed my concerns and she confirmed my suspicions. Depression. Well, major depression that is. A disease I thought I was immune to. I hated myself for it, for letting it happen, for not seeing it sooner. I didn’t understand that there was nothing I could’ve done. Just thinking about it made me want to break down and cry.

It took me a while to finally accept it, but thanks to the diagnosis, things began to make sense, and I could start understanding myself. “Quirks” became symptoms. A lack of energy and motivation was no longer simply unjustifiable laziness. But, it also made me realize that I have had depression for at least a year, if not longer. I simply never noticed I had a problem. I thought it was normal. If only I had known earlier, I thought, maybe I wouldn’t be as much of a mess. At least now, I could get a good idea of how long it has been affecting me, and it occurred to me that it’s been years.

Anxiety has always been an incredibly obvious part of my life that I never really understood until I found out it was anxiety. I always thought that the bus ride to school was making me slightly sick each time, and weirdly afraid. I always thought that everyone had to plan out what they’d have to say to people ahead of time to not make it weird. I always thought that having to mentally prepare myself to say “Here!” when my name was called out was normal. I always thought that making eye contact was a huge effort for everyone. Of course not, it always was anxiety. It was actually quite strange to realize that these things come naturally to most people. When I was told I might have anxiety I denied it for so long because it would’ve meant accepting that what I thought was normal was actually quite unusual.

As opposed to anxiety being all up in my face, depression snuck up on me. Its signs were a bit better hidden, only tipping me off a little before striking me full force. You would think you’d notice that you’re losing interest in all the activities that you used to enjoy, but there I was not realizing until it really hit. I simply didn’t notice that I didn’t read as much as I once had, didn’t notice that I wasn’t really doing origami or playing video games as much as I used to, didn't notice that it was because I lost interest in music that I quit band (numerous times throughout writing this I found my energy to keep writing trickle away). I also never really had a reason as to why my drive to do homework progressively went away year by year until the only thing that could motivate me to finish was sheer panic. I hated that I let it sneak up on me, and it gave me yet another reason to hate myself.

Among my self deprecation I could say I found myself. There was a quiet little thought in the back of my mind that kept me going. You’ll be ok. At first I didn't believe it, how could I? Constantly feeling broken isn't exactly the best evidence that it’ll all turn out fine in the end. Yet, I eventually came to terms with myself, I was able to say that it wasn’t my fault, that it was ok that I never realized because I know now. Perhaps I may never be how I was before, and perhaps I’ll never be normal again. But what’s that really matter anyways? Do I really want to be some mentally stable 7 year old again? Is being normal all that important? I may never be free of depression or anxiety, but I will always be me. When I finally accepted my diagnosis I felt something new. Hope. I felt that maybe, just maybe, I will be ok.