Here I sit for another day, not leaving my house and having little motivation to do anything. I wasn't supposed to have depression. It wasn't fair. I was a happy, outgoing person and now my life is usually spent inside my house and a lot is spent in my darkened bedroom. Depression is bad enough but I also suffer from migraine headaches 24/7 and am extremely light sensitive so I have room darkening drapes in my bedroom, towels along the bottom of the doors to keep even that slight light out. I even have post-its covering the lights on the television because they are too bright. Sunshine and light are supposed to be helpful when you suffer from depression and yet I have to keep the light out.

I know the stigma surrounding depression is better than it was fifty years ago and yet I feel as though it is still the silent illness no one wants to talk about much less admit to having. I grew up in a home with a mother that was secluded much of the time because of depression but we never knew that. Neither of my parents talked about it. I was 33 years old when my parents told me that my mother had suffered from a life-long battle with depression and that it was hereditary. That was it, nothing more. I didn't get to ask questions. They did their duty because it might run in families.

When I was first diagnosed with depression I knew I had to approach my depression openly. I wanted my children to know what was wrong with me. I didn't want them to wonder why I spent so many days in darkness. I also knew I needed to talk about depression and bring it out in the open.