
My life has been one struggle after another. Dealing with depression was not as easy or as fun as a ride on a slide. It was more like a sickening spin on the merry-go-round; it felt like I was holding on for dear life and spinning so fast my hands were loosing grip. My therapy sessions were a revolving door. I went in and came out, hoping it to be the last, but only to face another session. 
It all started around the tender age of 13-just getting into my teenage years. I battled with my identity. It felt like I was walking against a strong wind. I knew I was adopted ever since I understood what that meant, but I wasn't happy knowing this. I began going to therapy with my family, only to find myself angrier than a punished child. I attempted suicide twice in that few months, and finally manipulated my parents into taking me out of that therapy. 
For the next two years, I kept any negative feelings undercover, not opening my shell to anyone. By the beginning of my junior year in high school, I couldn't keep it in. My emotions exploded like an overheated bag of popcorn. More suicide attempts were made. I was taken to our local hospital where I was put in the psychiatric unit and diagnosed with major depression. This news hit me like a bug on a moving car's windshield. I didn't know this was a sickness. I was released and forced to start individual therapy. 
I became very close to my new therapist-she made me laugh and helped me to solve little problems. Although things were looking better, there were a lot of problems still hovering over me like vultures around road kill. I again tried killing myself and was sent back to the hospital. This time, I was released into an intense therapy group for teenagers. These sessions were every weekday for either four or eight hours. My self-esteem went down, and I seemed to have made more problems for myself-getting into drugs. 
I made it through nearly two months of this intense therapy, and came out happier and feeling less depressed. I went back to bottling up my anger and sadness in order to stay out of therapy, but a gang rape on me ripped apart the barrier. Once again, I was injuring myself and back in the hospital. 
I returned to the powerful group therapy with even lower self-esteem than before. Not happy with my appearance, I became anorexic. I lost a lot of weight, and began looking like a starving child from Bosnia. My therapist forced me to slowly start eating again; however, noticing the slightest weight gain led me to eat and then purposely vomit. My therapist caught on to my bulimia and began monitoring my eating before, during and after. I felt trapped. 
I finally realized if I didn't want to live, I would have succeeded in my suicide attempts. I gradually discovered what I had to live for, and I was sick of being labeled as depressed. I decided I wanted help. 
Today, I still visit a another therapist every once in a while, and I am currently getting off my medications. I finally feel free; I am no longer struggling to hold on to the slippery bars of the merry-go-round. The revolving door is now a one-way door, and I have left the building. Good-bye, depression. Hello, slide.
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