I am 25, this is my reality.

I am me, I am you, I am he, I am she, I am all of us; people. I change with the news, with the times, with my friends, with the trends, with your experiences and with mine…

Today I am 25 and I am depressed. It’s hard to know for sure how I got here, but I know I’m here. At first I thought I was sick because of the pain, but the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong. After the second check-up with the pain still recurring, the doctor suggested I was either highly stressed or depressed. I laughed then because it all seemed too bizarre, depression that is. I knew I was stressed but I couldn’t possibly be depressed. I was wrong. Now, I’m battling this disease that has walked into my home and is making no attempt to leave.

I have always had very high expectations in life. What I didn’t know was where it would lead me or just how dissatisfied I was with my life. In my mind, I had it under control. I have tried to explain to my parents but they can’t understand it. I’m too young to be depressed, they said. Their prognosis was stress, the easiest option to live with. I tried a long vacation but after a day or two of excitement in one city, the sadness returned so I cut my trip short. Their next solution was to go out more often and make new friends. How can I make new friends, when I am not confident in what I have to offer? I get claustrophobic and I want to hide in my room. It’s where I feel the safest. Even though I am aware it means digging a deeper hole into the world of reclusion, I feel better in that moment. I can handle the silence and the dark, but not life when everyone else seems to be going on well. I feel more alone that ever, like I’m the only one acknowledging the trivialities of this world.

Suicide has crossed my mind several times but I’m not that bold. At first I felt ashamed even thinking of it; Nigerians don’t think about things like that, we know better. But do we? Does race or culture really have anything to do with survival with regards to depression? I confess, I can relate to those that actually go through with it. Some people think they are cowards or selfish, but they don’t have to deal with the pain we go through. One day is unbearable enough. Thinking of forty years in this same dark hole is torture.

I am slowly losing those who are dear to me and I’m no use to those that look up to me. My cousin watches me and I see her concern. She’s the only other person I have because we are the only kids from our parents. She knows me so well. She notices I am struggling but she doesn’t know how to help. I wish I could give her some satisfaction by fixing myself, but I don’t know how or where to start. My boyfriend finally got frustrated and left. He tried so hard to make me happy but nothing seemed to work. I’d dump me too if I were him: my moodiness, my sporadic tears, my alcohol addiction, my compulsive behavior and my gluttony. It all got the best of him. I was dragging him down the hole with me, but he wasn't having it. I almost envy him because he could walk away from the situation. I try to do that. Just get up and forget I am depressed but it’s impossible. I can’t stop the pain.

I have tried denial and my parents have tried secrecy. I’m scared of where it is leading me because it gets harder to bear. Some days are better than others, and in those days I pray the satisfaction carries over to the next day, but it always wears off too fast. I still hope that one day, just as Mohammed walked away from me, my "daymares" will end. Until then, I will keep waking up to find out which hand I was dealt: if its the lonely day of drawn window curtains or the day I’m bold enough to venture out of my prison. This daily struggle is the life I live. This is my reality.