I am not sad.

Tick...tick...tick...tick...

The second hand hammers away, echoing throughout the otherwise silent room. You glance at the clock. 4:41AM. Another sleepless night. You long for the first traces of sunlight to trickle in through the curtains. You have already counted the ceiling tiles twice. What to do?

You flop over onto your right side. Then onto your stomach. Then onto your left side. Then onto your back, once again. You smack your fist against the pillow a few times. Pull the covers up over your ears. Pointless.

Thump...thump...thump...thump...

Your heart pounds violently against your chest, competing with the second hand on the clock for your ears' attention. 

From somewhere deep inside your mind, thoughts begin to surface.

"Think of all the mistakes you have made."
"You are worthless."
"You are always going to feel this way."
"What is the point of living?"

They are only thoughts, but it seems as though they are screams trapped inside your skull. 

You attempt to take a deep breath but your chest only tightens, sending a sharp pain down your torso. You glance at the clock again. 4:47AM.

And so, the night drags on.

This is a just a glimpse into the reality of depression. But God forbid I bring up that word.

"What? Depressed? Oh, no, honey, you're just sad. Everyone gets sad now and then!"

I am not sad.

Sad is when you think your favorite TV show is going to come on at 9:00 but it comes on at 8:00 and you miss it. Sad is when you drop your ice cream cone on the sidewalk. Sad is when you don't get a chance to go out this weekend because you are loaded down with house chores that need to be done.

I am not sad.

I am clinically depressed. Depression is an illness. Just as I am assuming you would not say these things to a person with cancer, or heart disease, or multiple sclerosis, do not tell me to "get over it." Do not tell me to "just cheer up." And do not tell me that "it's mind over matter." When you have been utterly crippled by despair to the point of not being able to take a full breath, of not being able to move a single muscle, of feeling everything and nothing at the same time, then come back and talk to me about "mind over matter." When you have felt yourself sink into a pitch black abyss of anguish, seemingly without escape, then I dare you to come back and tell me to "get over it."

Am I sounding a little harsh? Good. Maybe it will help get the point across.

I

am

not

sad.