The first sign of my depression that I remember was in 8th or 9th grade. I decided to scratch my wrist until there was a scab – a small injury that was easy enough to blame on a girl with long fingernails on the basketball court.

Over the years it dawned on me that I had depression, especially as the buzz grew louder in the late 90s and I started hearing about depression everywhere. I'm 26 now and I haven't hurt myself since college. I lost the urge and thought that meant things were getting better and the depression would slip away. I thought my maturing brain would change enough to shake off the sadness.

But the depression is still here, and it's still hurting me. These days, months, years, it's not physical hurt. Rather, it's hurting my work performance. It's hurting my friendships. It's hurting my dating. I can't shake it.

This is not what I envisioned when a decade ago I started envisioning my future self. The pieces are in place - I've got a good job with potential to grow, my new apartment is great, my family loves me (and my nephews are darn cute!), I think my friends are wonderful, neat people.

Yet here I am just hanging on, just going through the motions of a good life and hoping I'll catch up with the picture I've tried to paint of myself. But instead, depression is catching up with me: I’m not doing well at work. I’ve had to apologize for being rude to my friends. I’m standoffish when it’s unwarranted. I can’t concentrate to read any of the books I would like to.

I can’t separate the illness from who I am anymore. If you asked me to describe myself, I would say lazy, ugly, uncaring and bad. The medical information out there says this is something that can be treated; that most people can get better. I’ve tried to talk to professionals a little bit here and there. I didn’t follow up and, as always, waited for it to go away on its own. I waited for that life-altering experience that would wipe my slate clean and allow me to move on.