My entire immediate family has struggled with various forms of depression and/or anxiety at various times during my growing up. Both sides of the extended family are prone to mental illness. So it should have been no surprise to anyone that I was diagnosed with depression. My problem was with how long it took me to receive treatment and action. That is a sore spot between me and my family to this day.

I was socially withdrawn for most of my childhood, and the problem got worse as I got older. I attended a very small jr high/high school and was often excluded by my peers. As time progressed, I made friends and attempted to take part in activities at school. I was desperately afraid of failing. I would start activities like volleyball or band, and suddenly become unable to perform them at all. I quit things left and right all four years of high school. My senior year I got two after school jobs, and tried my best to disassociate from my peers.

During this time, I had attempted to talk to my family about my depression, but to no avail. While we all suffer from similar problems, even now it is a topic to be avoided. My parents could have been a source of support and encouragement when it came to my mental problems, but instead they chose to ignore my symptoms. I went so far as to tell my parents that I wanted help, that I was extremely depressed. I was told to try and work things out on my own. Needless to say, I never got any better during high school and the summer after I graduated.

After graduating high school I moved to Kentucky to start college. I wanted to be as far away from everything I knew as humanly possible. My depression unfortunately tagged along. I tried very hard during my freshman year to maintain a normal life. I took 6 classes and wrote for the school newspaper once a week, while working part time as a janitor. It didn't take long for things to crumble. I skipped classes, dropped one of them, and quit my job for something less strenuous. The new job I took turned out to be even more mind numbing. The newspaper discontinued the health column I'd been working on, and so I quit writing for them.

During this time, I had met and starting dating a guy named Josh. He turned out to be the one who helped me the most through my problems. While we were together, he suffered through endless bitchiness and crying spells, stemming mostly from my inability to cope with life. Tiny little things made me feel like the world was ending. Josh was always there to listen, but it didn't take him long to realize I had problems bigger than what he could handle.

Josh convinced me to go to the student clinic on campus, and ask for some medication. It was a step that I should have taken years ago. I got an appointment, explained my problems to the campus doctor, and walked out with about 6 weeks worth of Prozac samples. It was now the spring of 2000.

Along with my samples, I was required to see a counselor on campus. That was my one and only experience with therapy. I was parked on a vinyl chair, drilled about my eating habits, and told I was filled with rampant yeast growth. Admittedly I did get a good snicker out of the whole experience later, but while it was going on, it was pure torture. I refused to go back.

Starting prozac was an interesting experience. About an hour after I took my first pill, I swore I felt it hit my brain. Things went fuzzy for just a second, and then surreal. I proceeded not to sleep for 4 days. When the initiation period was over, I was amazed. I had never been so confident or so positive in my life. I've been on Prozac now for almost a year, though not continuously. I've discovered twice now that I'm not quite ready to be medication free, although i would like to be someday. Withdrawl does not make for a happy munchkin.