I was in high school when I was diagnosed. At first my family refused to believe me, saying it was just teenage angst or the result of puberty.

But there was a darkness  I couldn’t shake and the doctor gave it a name: clinical depression.

I’ve lived with it for years. I still have moments of darkness, I still struggle sometimes but thanks to a good support system, my doctors and my medication, I am able to live a relatively normal life.— Elaine, 28

It’s funny, to me, when friends used the word “depressed” lightly, when they say things like “They didn’t have the shoes in my size, I’m so depressed” or “I’m so depressed he didn’t ask me out again.”

Sometimes I want to grab their shoulders and say, “You don’t know what that word really means.” I do.

I am not belittling their struggles but there’s a difference between sadness and real depression. It’s paralyzing, it stops your world. It’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone.—Jan, 32

I wish we were in a place where people could talk about mental issues openly, like we do about cancer. I’m willing to be open about my disease, but my parents are not.

Maybe when I’m a little older. For now I am choosing to respect their request for silence. —Ana, 23

I have lost two friends to depression. Both  were successful women with seemingly happy families. They were friendly, funny and warm. Whatever pain they were going through, they hid it well.

They took their own lives, leaving young children behind. Their deaths happened a few years apart of each other but I cannot think of one without the other.

Was there something I could have done?

I will never have the answer to this question. But my friends left me with important reminders: that you never know for sure what people around you are going through, that it is important to be kind and that life is fleeting and you need to make every second count.—Pam, 33