Great Depression Research Paper

Trying to explain my depression is like trying to swim across the San Francisco Bay from Alcatraz in the shark infested water; if Alcatraz were my mind and the water were boiling tar, pulling me further and further down until the black gunk filled my lungs and stung my eyes. After so many pointless attempts of struggling, I eventually give up and let my body slowly sink to the bottom, letting the tar consume me and soon enough, no one remember the real me, only the black swamp that I have recluded in. This is what is left of me by then: The girl that once was is now suppressed by the demons that my friends and family have long come to know. But I am still in here somewhere, right?

Dealing with my depression is like going to a seemingly harmless party and

I instead let it control everything I do because it is easier than fighting. And of course when I said “trying to explain my depression” I didn’t mean that either. Because the one time I tried to explain it to my doctor, he accused me of being “an emotional teenager” and told me to “come back when I have a real problem”. That my rapid weight loss “wasn’t a problem” because “most girls your age are bulimic anyway”. But I am not. And the time that I tried to explain it to my mother, she yelled at me for being ungrateful and cried because she “never thought having kids would be like this”. I have tried to explain it to my father, but he seldom listens to me. And the one “friend” I could trust enough to open up to built me up in a way that my depression never had before. She made me feel like my life was worth living and I felt truly beautiful for once in my life. Her words seemed so pure and so true. But all good things must come to an end, don’t they. She let me crash harder than ever before and never looked back, never thought twice about me. They all thought I was still