Since it's National Mental Health Awareness month, it seemed like a fitting time to finally write this post.

Someone asked me recently how much of me is in Holding On and Letting Go. At first, I went for my usual answer: my clothes and my love of dogs. While I do own all of the clothes in the book and have two dogs, I gave a superficial answer. The real part of me that seeped into Holding On and Letting Go is my own personal struggle with depression.

Hindsight is 20/20, right? Looking back, I didn't realize just how easy I had it as a child, teenager, and college student. I have a very supportive family and strong friendships, and I didn't necessarily work for any of them. I just lucked out in the draw of the cards. Truly, I love both of my parents, and my older brother is a best friend of sorts. We may not look like siblings, but we are in every way that matters.

I don't know what it's like to be bullied; I saw it in middle school but it never landed on me. To be fair, I can level most people with one comment and hold my own in any argument. I think I got pushed once in my entire life, and I know I knocked that person down. Despite my small stature, my parents taught me at an early age to stand up for myself and other people. The Coleman family isn't exactly made up of passive or passive aggressive personalities. It also probably helped that I was constantly trying to tackle and arm lock my much taller and stronger older brother, so a girl of my size and weight was much easier to shove back when it came down to it. Don't get me wrong. I could very easily get my butt handed to me in a physical fight, but in the years that mattered in school hallways, I just never had to prove myself past one shove.

Likewise, while I'm not naturally brilliant, I realized at some point in college that I didn't have to work quite as hard as some people. I worked really hard for my grades, but I never had to worry about the all too important standardized tests. As it turns out, I find answering those verbal and math questions calming, and I like shading in the little bubbles. Again, I took for granted things that just came naturally to me when I should have been grateful.

In terms of appearance, I'm like any other female. I think most women carry a gene that predispositions us to hate one body part for no apparent reason. That one scene in Mean Girls is disturbingly accurate. I don't know why. I inherited a very fast metabolism, so I never had to worry about weight or whether or not to eat dessert. It's possible my love of food will catch up with me, but until it does, I am going to enjoy the ride on my metabolism for as long as possible.

I had a pretty nice life. When I got strep throat at 24, I didn't think anything of it. I took the antibiotics and never followed up on it despite feeling sleepy all of the time and a persistent sore throat. I didn't actually get retested for strep until about eight months after my first positive strep test. I probably would have went for longer, but my hair fell out in massive sheds, my skin broke out for the first time in my life, and I wanted to cry all of the time. When I went back to the doctor, I found out that I never got rid of strep and had to have my tonsils removed. As a not so lovely parting gift, the strep infection essentially destroyed my thyroid and hormone systems. Watching so much of my hair shed broke me. It sounds ridiculous, but it did. As a very strong Type A personality, I didn't take to watching things spiral out of my control particularly well. At that point, I was a 25 yr old woman watching my hair just come out in handfuls while my hormones just shut down which didn't leave me in a particularly good place to deal with things.

I went through every stage of depression fiercely. Denial. I had been perfectly fine a year ago, so how could things go wrong so quickly? Anger. I had quite a few "it's not fair" moments coupled with "why me?" moments. Overwhelming sadness. I cried so much during that period. I cried out of sadness for what I lost, the part of me I lost, and frustration that I couldn't seem to pick myself up again. Truly, I'm amazed that more people couldn't tell I was on the verge of losing it all of the time. Finally, wanting to disappear. I wasn't suicidal. The rational part of me couldn't do it to myself or the people I loved. I just wanted to stay in the house and in my bed and disappear. I didn't want to talk. I certainly didn't want to go out besides work which was a struggle. I didn't even recognize myself in the mirror. I was very much shattered and just going through the motions. Gratefully, I had a strong enough support system that I essentially got forced into seeing a psychiatrist.

It took some trial and error to find a doctor that I liked and trusted, but it made all of the difference in the world. I didn't want to take any medication. I didn't want to be seen as weak or the stigma attached to it. The psychiatrist won that fight. Given that my body wasn't producing the proper amount of chemicals for me to be happy or even okay, I needed to take something to compensate for what my body had stopped doing naturally. They must train psychiatrists to be able to decipher "ugly cry" speak because I have no clue how that guy heard anything I was saying for the first few months. Depression is ugly. Every insecurity and fear comes to the surface, and all of the good things in life seem to disappear.

I may have lost some battles to depression (a friend's wedding, time with my nephews, some months of my life), but I won the war. Is everyday puppy dogs and rainbows? No. Part of life is getting knocked down. Do I wish I would never shed hair again? Absolutely. Have I gotten to a place where I am happy with who I am? Yes. I like me, and I deserve a life filled with love and happiness which I have. If I kept handing over months of my life every time I got sick or pulled out a handful of hair or couldn't control the world, I'd be fairly miserable. Everyday, I make the conscious decision that I want more out of life, and I am the only person who can make that decision and fight that battle for me. I deserve more out of life.

I'm writing this post because I didn't seek help for so long because of the stigmas attached to depression. I didn't fit the "type". I've always had a great family and friends. I've never gone through a phase of wearing all black. To be honest, I am very much the girl next door in terms of appearance. And that's the thing. No one thinks that the girl next door may be struggling with something. No one signs up to be on the losing side of depression. It's not a choice any more than any other illness is, nor should depression be something to be ashamed of ever. I'm willing to put my name and face with it because I hope that it makes it easier for someone else to get help. I wrote the book in hopes of helping someone else. You're not alone, and you're not weak. You are the only one who can fight this specific fight, and you owe that to yourself.

http://www.amazon.com/Holding-On-Lett...