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Sometimes I wonder what life would be like free of depression. But, that life is impossible for me, as I have suffered from low-grade depression my entire life. Diagnosed in my early thirties after years of being labeled the girl who "had it all" but yet was inexplicably "moody" at times, having a trusted doctor tell me of my illness came as a relief. Yes, a breath of fresh air.

You may ask how that could be. Is that the perspective of a real case study, one who found comfort in realizing that she suffered from mental illness? Perhaps you could throw a few spoonfuls of insanity into that mix. A box full of donuts one short of a dozen, but a depressed box at that.

I understand why you may wonder about my sense of relief - freedom really - when finally diagnosed as a life-long sufferer of depression. But, it may make perfect sense to you if I describe the life of bondage a person experiences when living with undiagnosed depression. It's like having an elephant-in-the-room type of problem, but is it? You see, at least when you can name your problem, you can seek a solution.

Life with depression is challenging. The problem is often misunderstood and thus placed back on the sufferer. It's as if people thought I were in total control of those moody moments and pouty lips that have reliably been a part of who I was since anyone could remember.

Before I knew I had clinical depression, I knew only this - that my life (no matter how charmed) had always been tainted with this slight veil of disappointment. It's kind of like walking through life with this gray cloud overhead no matter what else is going on. Just as people who live in Belgium must learn to cope with little consistent sunlight, from an early age I had to learn how to cope with that gray cloud.

Life was a bit like a see saw, and so were my moods. First, I did things to try to lift that gray cloud and make myself feel better. Ice cream helped. Pleasing my parents helped. So did getting good grades and the praise of my piano teacher. The best was being chased by boys on the playground. But, no matter what I did to try to feel better, there was always that sense that it was not enough.

How could I appreciate a pink flower from Frank on Valentine's Day when the most popular boy Brad had promised but forgotten to send me the red one? How could I show proper thanks to my parents for the wonderful wicker furniture they gave me for my bedroom when sixth grade was turning out to be so scary? Why was it on some days tears

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