If you were to see me in a crowd, I don’t think you would notice anything special. That’s the thing about mental illness—it’s good at disguising itself. It hides behind a smile, a laugh, an “I’m just tired.” No one ever asks any further questions. For the majority of my life, I hid behind that façade. I never wanted to live a day of my life. I got excellent grades, participated in sports, band, and piano, and had a plethora of friends. I have a cabinet full of trophies and medals, but they mean nothing to me.

Growing up, I never imagined a life past the age of sixteen. It never crossed my mind that I might live beyond that age. My childhood was spent with the crushing anxiety of never being good enough. Doting guardians wanted to provide me with every opportunity to achieve, not realizing that instead they were instilling an inability to enjoy things just for the sake of enjoyment. Once, when I was about fourteen, my two best friends compiled a list of fifty things they hated about me. I’ve never been able to trust “friends” since then.

I started to cut in high school—tiny little nicks at first, but it became a recurring character in my biography. If you were to ask what made me decide to self-harm, I couldn’t tell you exactly. Years of being unheard and feeling unbearably alone had filled me to the brim, and somehow I had to make room inside myself. Cutting made space for my mind to grasp at happy moments. When a friend I had confided in exposed my self-harming to the school counselor, I originally felt a ping of relief that someone would finally see how much pain I was in and help me. Instead, the counselor’s words were burned into my psyche: “They’re all shallow, she’s just doing it for attention.” I never shared my secret with anyone else.

At sixteen, I had my first child and, all of the sudden, I realized I had to keep moving forward. Mental illness doesn’t step aside while you parent, though. I adored my daughter. I wish that I could say I loved her more than anything, but I did not love her more than I was afraid of being alone or unloved. I broke up with her father when she was just a few months old—then married the first person who treated me with kindness just ninety days later.

For years, I was held afloat by antidepressants. They gave me the strength to put on a mask and keep going, but they never removed the hollowness that flooded every day. I tried so many different antidepressants, yet I was always left reaching for what seemed to come so easily to those around me. I was painfully aware of how heavily I relied on those tiny pills to make it through each day. I remember the feeling of sheer panic I had while desperately searching for them—my husband explaining in the background that he had hidden them because I was brainwashed and didn’t need them.

It wasn’t long until I was expecting my second child. I worked full-time overnight, then would turn around and spend my days at the local university tackling my bachelor’s degree eighteen credit hours at a time. The few hours of free time I had, I would spend with my daughter and catch a nap if I could. My husband directed me to quit my job prior to giving birth. I listened. I graduated early, just in time for my third child to be born.

At this point in the story, I know the expectation is that I found purpose in my children, but I didn’t. I felt like I was locked inside my own mind, helpless to do anything but watch my life unfold. The next several years were both excruciatingly slow and passed in the blink of an eye. My husband settled into a routine of ensuring I was reminded each day that I was stupid, a horrible mother, and a hideous wife. The fear of being unloved began to swell inside me again, and my self-harm reemerged. I was an artist, and my body was the canvas I engraved upon. A surprise fourth pregnancy, coupled with the constant thrumming of inadequacy that I felt, pushed me into finding work.

I excelled at my new job and was quickly promoted. My boss was thrilled with my talent, and I was the head of every new endeavor the company took on. At home, my husband would tell me I was a liar and that I was awful at my job. His insults began to switch from calling me stupid to telling me I was crazy and out of touch with reality. When you hear something frequently enough, it is hard not to believe it. I began to spiral into the darkest depression I had ever experienced. I was overworked, abused, and tired. Anyone I shared a sliver of my deafening anguish with assured me that life was just hard sometimes. I quietly went to a local doctor’s office and begged for medication to relieve the agonizing pain of having my mind turn against itself. They obliged, and for several months I secretly took the cocktail of antidepressant, anti-anxiety, and mood-stabilizing medication they had offered me.

I sat in my car and watched the early morning sun gradually spread across a small field near my work the day I planned to kill myself. The long tendrils of grass gently swayed in the wind as I sat in silence, mesmerized by the beauty and calmness surrounding me. It felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest, and for the first time in years I could finally breathe. I didn’t have to be a hollow shell of a person for much longer. That day, I was going to go home during my lunch break. It didn’t matter that I only had thirty minutes; I wasn’t going to be back. My three newly filled prescriptions sat lined up on my dresser waiting to be my lunch.

I can’t recall what derailed my carefully laid plans, but the months that followed were a journey of healing and acceptance. That’s what I’d like to write, at least. In reality, I had a mental breakdown at work and my boss called my husband, who rushed home and disposed of my pills. I spent that night curled in the corner of my closet, afraid to leave because I didn’t want to endure being verbally shattered by my spouse anymore.

Returning to work was one of the most embarrassing things I’ve ever experienced. My boss and coworkers—who had previously been in awe of my work—now talked to me as though I were a child and fervently avoided eye contact. My performance was put under intense scrutiny; many of the projects I led were suddenly given to other employees. I quit that job soon after.

The years that followed didn’t err from the downward trend and ended in a messy divorce, a handful of plans to not go on, and an innumerable amount of new scars, both physical and mental. It also brought me to someone who loves me in the way I need to be loved. I remarried, started therapy and medications, and developed the first good friendship I’ve had in my life. I found a job that allowed me to make an impact helping youth who struggle with mental health in the same way I did. I had a fifth baby. I kept going.

It’s easy to tell a story of hope. Everyone wants to hear how my life has improved now, and I can’t help but feel the urge to put on a show and give people what they want. I don’t want to share that I still have bouts of crushing depression that leave me unshowered, curled up in bed for days. I don’t want to share that sometimes I relapse into self-harm or that I still struggle to see a point in going through each day. I don’t want to share the number of times I’ve wished for an escape from existence. I don’t want to share that I am still struggling.

What I want to share is that two days ago, my infant son laughed for the first time because I tickled his tiny, chubby cheeks. I want to share the number of times my current husband has pulled me from the depths of my mind and shown me love and compassion in my darkest times. I want to share that this afternoon my daughter asked to watch a movie with me, and I watched her slowly fall asleep in the safety of my arms. I want to share the soft smile that played across my face as my husband cracked yet another dad joke as I write. I want to share the relief I feel in my chest when I accept that sometimes it’s okay to struggle.

It’s 1:09 AM of the day this writing piece is due. I put off writing this because I didn’t feel like my story was worth sharing. I was afraid that I wouldn’t have anything to say or that what I did say wouldn’t be worth reading. It’s okay if all someone gathers from reading this is that mental illness is a master of disguise. It’s also okay if someone hates all that I’ve written—because every time someone says, “I’m just tired,” they might think of my words and maybe ask a little more anyway. And if all that comes from my essay is that I can say I did it, that’s enough for me.