Olivia L.
Photography by Jessica Pentel
My battle with depression began my senior year of high school. Now, as a fourth year at UVA, I cannot say I have won that battle, for it has raged on relentlessly for four years, but I can say I am winning—because I am still here.
Depression is like a hole that opens up in the ground beneath you without warning. But the fall is not quick. It is gradual. A branch appears and you become hopeful for a second while you grab onto it for life and will it into helping you back up to freedom. But soon enough the branch breaks, and you resume your slow descent into the darkness. You do not know how deep the hole is. You hope it is shallow. Perhaps the depth of a pothole you can easily climb out of. But it normally is not. You fall further and further as you watch your life go by and new branches of hope emerge but quickly prove useless like the rest. You begin to accept your fall. You begin to not fight your way back to the top but float peacefully to the bottom as the struggle to the surface becomes more burdensome. You eventually begin to think of ways to accelerate your plummet to the bottom. You grab onto heavy objects to weigh you down as you accept your fate. You don’t remember what light looks like, so your eyes become accustomed to the darkness. You close your eyes and hope they never open again. What you do not realize is the darkness of the hole is temporary, but the darkness you choose is forever. This is because depression is not a hole at all, but a tunnel, with a dim light shining through on the other side.
For four years, I have slid down this tunnel called depression. And each time, when all I could see was darkness, when I could feel nothing but numbness, I could not remember what it felt like to be happy. I woke up each morning, willing the day to go by, so I could crawl back into bed and encompass my mind in the comfort of my dreams, but even these eventually became plagued with my fears and stresses. I buried myself in my studies and work, but they only pushed me further into darkness. What once was solely a mental illness began manifesting into physical illness as my body begged me to relieve it from the constant, overwhelming stress, but I did not listen. A couple of months ago, I developed generalized anxiety and experienced my first panic attack, which triggered my depression once again. Just when I thought I had won my battle with depression, I was faced with old and new obstacles, more insidious than the last.
All I wanted during these times was to remember the feeling of happiness. And as time went on, I began to learn that happiness was not something you could remember—it was a feeling that you could only experience, a feeling I would eventually experience again. And at the end of each depressive phase I bore through, I always did feel happiness again, but it took time and an active effort to adopt new mindful habits and seek help. And that is what gets me through each day when I do not remember how happiness feels. It is the promise of the feeling again one day. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually.
If you’re reading this, your battle may not be over, but I hope you continue to fight and, eventually, remember what it feels like to be happy again.
Olivia L., University of Virginia ‘22
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