“And who is someone you can talk to when you’re feeling this way?” the therapist asked.

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. I just shifted in the uncomfortable silence of someone waiting for an answer I didn’t have. My mind went blank with the sound of her pen tapping against her clipboard. The air in her office was cool yet stifling. 

Who did I have? Friends who made fun of me to my face and hung out together behind my back? Parents who didn’t have an ounce of emotional intelligence between them? A sister who had dragged me to this school therapist when I finally got the courage to open up about my struggling mental health?

I was alone. Everyone I had given my trust had hurt or betrayed me. Every person around me was another person I had to hide from. I had convinced myself it was me against the world. I had no one but myself. But there was someone, or rather something, I had. 

As a kid, I had a passion for words. I scribbled in notebooks I hid under my pillow. I read the poetry of Shel Silverstein and Jack Prelutzky and relished in the wordplay. All three years of middle school I took creative writing even though it was the same curriculum each time. Years of practice and passion had refined my writing skills. Taking images and feelings and turning them into words felt natural.

So, when I had no one else, it only made sense to turn to the pen. I’m not sure if I realized why I was doing it. I think it was just something I did. It was a part of me.

I took out a notebook that had been left untouched for so long, and started writing. Every emotion I had kept pent up inside poured out onto the pages. The things I wrote about were dark: characters racked with paranoia, hearing voices, turning against themselves and everyone around them. Everything I couldn’t handle myself, I passed onto them.

And eventually, those stories grew lighter. It was no longer characters suffering by themselves. I wrote them overcoming their anxieties, or reaching out to people who responded with the compassion I had never received myself. And with those stories, I grew lighter as well. Seeing even fictional characters being able to overcome anxiety and depression was enough to convince me that things could get better.

I’m not saying that writing “cured my depression.” I am in a much better place now, but that is mainly thanks to a good therapist and the right combination of medication. Finding friends that also went through depression and anxiety gave me a community where I could find support. I also found a group of friends who similarly struggled with depression and anxiety. They understood me and everything I was going through. They had been just as lonely as me, so they knew .

But what writing did do was allow me to manage my depression. Writing gave me an outlet. It gave me hope. It was with that hope that I reached out to therapists and to new people.

It would come as no surprise that I want to be a professional writer for a living. Writing is still a major part of my life. I know that when things get rough I will always have writing. I will always be able to fight my problems with a pen. I can put a piece of myself into every story and make it vulnerable and real. And maybe, just maybe, something I write will resonate with someone who went through what I did. Maybe it can give them the same hope and the same courage and maybe they will feel as though someone understands them.

Maybe I can keep someone from feeling as alone as I did.