Content Warning: This post discusses sensitive topics including depression, grief, and suicidal thoughts. If you're struggling with similar issues, please know you're not alone.
Have you ever felt like you're drowning, but everyone around you is breathing just fine? That's what depression feels like. It's not just being sad—it's like wearing a heavy coat made of lead that you can't take off, even on the hottest days. I know this feeling intimately because I've been living with depression for years, and today, I want to share my story with you.
You might wonder why I'm opening up about this now. Truth is, I've kept this hidden for so long, carrying it silently like a secret too heavy to share. But sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is admit we're struggling. So here I am, not looking for sympathy, but hoping that by sharing my experience, someone else might feel less alone.
My journey with depression started when I was 13, after my grandmother passed away. She wasn't just a grandparent—she was my safe harbor, my confidante, Her loss created a void that seemed impossible to fill. I started withdrawing from everything I once loved: friends, hobbies, even daylight itself. My room became my fortress, but also my prison.
The years that followed were the darkest. In 2021, things got really bad. I turned to anime as an escape, watching shows from dawn till midnight, trying to live in fictional worlds because reality felt too painful. But distractions can only take you so far. By 2022, even that stopped working, and I found myself facing thoughts of suicide.
But here's the thing about rock bottom—sometimes it forces you to look up. Late in 2022, I did something that changed everything: I told my parents. It wasn't easy. They didn't fully understand, and some relatives dismissed it as something I could "snap out of." But that first step led to therapy and an official diagnosis of depression and anxiety.
One unexpected lifeline came in the form of coding. Technology became my new safe space—a world where logic made sense when emotions didn't. Every bug I fixed felt like a small victory, every project completed a reminder that I could still create something meaningful. The tech community gave me a sense of belonging when I felt most lost.
Today, I'm not "cured"—depression doesn't work like that. But I'm learning to coexist with it. Some days are still hard, but they're different now. The heavy coat doesn't feel quite as suffocating. I've learned that healing isn't about becoming who you were before; it's about growing into who you're meant to be.
If you're reading this and struggling with similar feelings, please know this: Your pain is valid. Your struggles are real. And most importantly, you don't have to face them alone. Reach out—to family, friends, professionals, or even online communities. Sometimes, the first step toward healing is simply admitting you need help.
What's your story? Have you faced similar struggles? Or are you supporting someone who is? Remember, sharing our experiences doesn't just help others—it helps us heal too. Let's keep this conversation going.
After she passed, I started to retreat into myself. At first, I didn't even notice the changes. I stopped wanting to go outside. The places I used to love felt empty without her, and being around others felt exhausting. I stopped talking to people, even my closest friends. They tried to reach out at first, but eventually, they stopped because I kept pushing them away.
Taking care of myself became an afterthought. I didn't see the point in trying anymore. My room became a reflection of my mind - clothes piled up in corners, half-empty water glasses collecting dust on my desk, blinds permanently drawn to keep the world out. The mirror became my enemy - when I caught glimpses of myself, my skin looked dull and lifeless, dark circles under my eyes like bruises. Most days, I'd lie in bed until my stomach's painful growling forced me to shuffle to the kitchen, only to return with whatever took the least effort to prepare.
More than anything, I remember feeling heavy. It wasn't just physical; it was emotional, too. My limbs felt like they were made of lead, each movement requiring immense effort. Even my clothes felt too heavy on my skin. The weight in my chest was the worst - like someone had placed a boulder there, making each breath shallow and labored. I wanted to scream, to tell someone how much I was hurting, but my throat felt constricted, the words stuck there like thick honey. The silence in my room was deafening, broken only by the soft whirring of my fan and my own uneven breathing. I felt like no one would understand, or worse, that they wouldn't care.
Looking back, I think that was the moment I started to lose myself. The outgoing, carefree kid I used to be started to disappear, and in their place was someone I barely recognized—someone who felt lost, empty, and alone.
The Darkest Years
Looking back, 2021 and 2022 were some of the darkest years of my life. That period wasn't just hard—it was overwhelming, suffocating, and, at times, unbearable. In 2021, I became suicidal. It wasn't something that happened all at once; it was a slow build-up of emotions, thoughts, and pain that I didn't know how to escape.
In early 2021, I experienced my first panic attack. I was in my room, the walls seeming to close in around me as my heart raced uncontrollably. The air felt thick and heavy, making each breath a struggle. My hands were trembling and cold with sweat, and the familiar comfort of my bedroom suddenly felt alien and threatening. I had to go outside that day, but even the thought of stepping beyond my door made my chest tighten painfully. When I finally forced myself to try, the bright sunlight felt harsh and overwhelming, the sounds of the neighborhood amplified to an unbearable level. What should have been a simple task turned into an ordeal as another wave of panic washed over me, leaving me dizzy and gasping for air on my front steps.
To cope—or maybe just to distract myself—I turned to anime. I thought it might be an escape from the storm in my mind, a way to silence the thoughts that kept creeping in. At first, it worked. I threw myself into it completely, watching show after show, episode after episode. It became my routine, my way of surviving.
Every day, I'd wake up at 7 a.m., turn on my computer or TV, and start watching anime. I'd lose myself in those fictional worlds, living through the characters, feeling their struggles and triumphs instead of my own. I watched all day, often until 1 or 2 a.m., barely stopping to eat or do anything else. I thought if I could just keep my mind occupied, I wouldn't have to think about the thoughts that haunted me.
But the truth was, no matter how much I tried to distract myself, the thoughts were still there, lingering in the background. I even reached a point where I acted on those thoughts, though thankfully, I survived. That moment scared me deeply. It was a wake-up call, but not enough to completely turn things around. I didn't want to feel that way again, yet I didn't know how to make it stop.
By 2022, things started to change, but not in the way I'd hoped. The anime I once relied on to escape no longer brought me joy. It felt empty, like the distraction wasn't enough anymore. I would sit there watching the same shows, but I wasn't really watching. My mind would drift, and the heaviness would return. The things that used to help me cope were losing their effect, and I felt more lost than ever.
That year, I realized that distraction alone wasn't enough. I needed something deeper—something that could truly help me heal and face what I was going through. But at the time, I didn't know where to start or who to turn to. I felt stuck in a loop of pain and numbness, unsure if I'd ever find a way out.
Early in 2022, I hit one of the lowest points in my life. The thoughts of ending it all came back, stronger and more frequent. There were two or three times when I seriously considered taking my own life. Those moments were terrifying—they felt like I was trapped in a dark tunnel with no way out.
But something stopped me. Maybe it was a small part of me that still held on to hope, or maybe it was fear of leaving my family with unanswered questions and pain. I don't know for sure, but I held on long enough to find the courage to do something I hadn't done before: I told my parents.
It was late in 2022 when I finally opened up to them. I told them everything—the thoughts I was having, the weight I was carrying, and how much I was struggling just to get through each day. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done because I didn't know how they would react.
My parents are old-fashioned in many ways. They believed me when I told them how I was feeling, but they didn't really know how to handle it. They tried to support me the best they could, but it was clear that they didn't fully understand what I was going through. Some of my relatives weren't as kind. They dismissed my struggles, telling me it was all in my head, something I could just "snap out of" if I tried harder. Hearing that hurt deeply, especially when I was already feeling so vulnerable.
Despite their good intentions, it felt like I was alone in navigating this. But opening up to my parents marked a turning point. Shortly after, I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety, including social anxiety. It was a relief to finally have a name for what I was feeling—to know that I wasn't just imagining it or being dramatic.
At the end of 2022, I started therapy. It was my first real step toward understanding and addressing my mental health. Therapy gave me a space to talk about my thoughts, fears, and struggles without fear of judgment. It wasn't easy at first—I was so used to bottling everything up that sharing felt foreign and uncomfortable. But over time, I began to see its value.
This is the first time I'm writing about these experiences, and I'm still not sure if I'll ever publish this. Just putting it into words feels like a small act of release, like letting go of a piece of the heaviness I've carried for so long.
Looking back, that dark period was incredibly painful, but it was also the last time I tried to end my life. It wasn't an instant transformation, but it was the start of a slow journey toward healing—a journey I'm still on today.
The Impact
Because of my struggles with depression, I ended up missing an entire year of school. That year felt like a void, a gap in my life that I couldn't fill. It wasn't just about falling behind academically; it affected so much more—my self-esteem, my confidence, and even the way I saw myself.
Even now, the effects linger. I still feel awkward in social situations, and talking to people doesn't come easily to me. There are times when I get so anxious that I feel overwhelmed, and panic attacks have become a part of my life. They come without warning, leaving me feeling powerless, even though I've learned to recognize the signs and try to manage them.
These experiences have left scars. My self-esteem has taken a hit, and it's been a long journey to rebuild even a fraction of the confidence I once had. For a while, I thought I'd never feel "normal" again, but things started to shift in 2023.
Surprisingly, 2023 became one of the best years for me. It wasn't because everything magically got better but because I started to find comfort in being alone. I learned to enjoy my own company, something I never thought I'd appreciate. Solitude became a space where I could think, reflect, and begin to heal.
Before that, I felt like my identity was shaped entirely by the environment around me. I didn't know who I was, what I wanted, or even how to express myself. I would stumble over my words, unsure of what I was trying to say. But in that year of solitude, I started to piece myself back together.
That's not to say everything is perfect now. I'm still not "over it." I still have my struggles. There are moments when the depression creeps back in, and I feel the weight of it all over again. I'm still figuring out how to navigate conversations and how to feel comfortable in social settings. And yes, panic attacks still happen.
But the depression I feel today isn't the same as it was before. It's not as all-consuming. It doesn't drown me the way it used to. Instead, it feels more like a shadow—something that's there but doesn't control me.
I'm not completely healed, and I know I probably never will be. But I've learned that healing isn't about becoming perfect or "fixing" yourself; it's about progress. It's about learning to live with the things that once held you back and finding ways to move forward, even when it's hard.
I still have bad days, but I also have good ones. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm starting to understand who I am and what I need to feel okay.
Finding Purpose in Tech
One of the things that helped pull me out of the rabbit hole of depression was discovering and leaning into my passion for tech and coding. It became more than just an interest—it was a lifeline, a way to channel my energy and escape the overwhelming thoughts that often consumed me.
When I code, I feel a sense of control that I rarely experience in other areas of my life. The logic, the problem-solving, the ability to create something from nothing—it gave me a sense of purpose that had been missing for so long. Every line of code felt like a small step forward, a way to prove to myself that I could still accomplish something meaningful, even when everything else felt chaotic.
Tech became a world where I could lose myself in a positive way. Whether it was learning a new programming language, building small projects, or exploring ideas, it kept my mind busy in a constructive way. Unlike the distractions I'd turned to in the past, this felt productive, like I was investing in myself and my future.
It wasn't just about the skills I was learning—it was about the confidence I was slowly rebuilding. With every bug I fixed and every feature I completed, I felt a little stronger, a little more capable. Coding reminded me that I was more than my struggles, that I could create and contribute something valuable to the world.
My passion for tech also gave me a sense of community. Even though I've struggled with social anxiety and often feel awkward in conversations, the tech world is full of people who share similar interests. Online forums, tutorials, and communities provided a space where I could connect with others, even if it was just by reading about their experiences or sharing my own small successes.
Looking back, I think tech and coding gave me hope. It was something to look forward to, something that made me want to keep going even on the darkest days. It didn't fix everything, and I still have a long way to go, but it gave me a foundation to start rebuilding my life.
Final Thoughts
When I started writing this, I wasn't entirely sure what I was saying. I just felt the need to let it all out. Writing about my experience feels messy, like trying to untangle thoughts I've kept locked away for so long. But even if my words aren't perfect, I hope they'll make sense to someone who might be going through something similar.
When I was in that dark rabbit hole, I spent a lot of time online reading about other people's experiences—how they faced their struggles and found their way out. I looked for any story, any thread of hope, that might make me feel less alone. I admired the courage of those who shared their journeys, but I never had the confidence to do the same.
For a long time, I kept it all inside, thinking no one would understand or care. But now, as I write this, I realize it's not about being understood perfectly. It's about finally letting it out—sharing my truth in the hope that someone else might find comfort in knowing they're not alone, just as I did when I read the words of others.
Thank you for reading.