I'm not really sure when my depression started. I do know it was shortly after I began my periods at the age of 12. It may have began long before that.

When I was six-years-old, I found out I was adopted from a schoolmate. I will never forget that day. We were in the gym playing kickball, and as I rounded first base Penny looked at me and said, "You're adopted." Of course I argued with her even though I didn't know what adopted meant. I remember bursting into tears and being made to sit out on the bleachers for the rest of the gym time.

When I got home that evening, I questioned my parents. I remember sitting on my mom's lap at the kitchen table with my mom and dad. I remember hearing my mom say, "Yes, you were adopted." In my mind, I remember her saying my mom was young and couldn't take care of me. I also remember her telling me the only information they had on my father was that he was from India. My parents reassured me and gave me the "you're special, you were picked" speech. It didn't help. All I heard was that someone didn't want me. I think this is when my issues with rejection began.

Through my elementary school days I didn't really think about my adoption that much. I did write a story about it in second grade and received an award. That is when my love of writing started. I remember bursting out in tears for no apparent reason in sixth grade once over my adoption.

Then came junior high. I had a lot of friends, but I never had a boyfriend. I had always been chubby, and it really affected my self-esteem. Boys didn't seem to like chubby girls in junior high, so I never had a boyfriend. This just reinforced my abandonment and rejection issues. There had to be something wrong with me and that's why nobody wanted me.

By the time I got to high school, my self-esteem was in the toilet. I had found a guy that I was head-over-heels in love with, but he had no interest in me at all. That didn't stop me though. I chased that poor guy for years. There was also another man I was crazy about and when he rejected me, I tried to commit suicide for the first time. I took a bunch of Dimetapp and a Valium. I think I was on the phone with my best friend at the time and she and her mom showed up after I had taken all the pills. I remember throwing up in the back of their van. I remember my parents showing up and my mom crying. They gave me charcoal and some kind of lemon-lime stuff to drink. It was awful. Each time I would vomit, the nurse would have to start counting again to make sure all the pills were up. My parents signed me into the mental health unit that night. I remember being so angry with them. My best friend came in and gave it to me straight, and I finally agreed. I don't remember much of that experience. I do remember calling a doctor an asshole and walking out on him. I remember my dad coming to see me and being so upset. I don't think he came again. I don't even remember how long I was in the hospital.

After that attempt, I began self-mutilating by cutting my wrists with the razor blades from disposable razors. I would cut and cut and cut until the physical pain was all I could feel and not the emotional pain.

I remember being in the hospital again during my senior year, but I can't remember if it was another suicide attempt or just bad behavior. I was also locked up in a detention center during the summer between my junior and senior years in high school. I had taken my car to a friend's house late one night. I called my mom to let her know where I was. She told me to get my butt home. I did go home shortly after that. A few days later, my mom told me to get an attorney because they were pressing joyriding charges against me. Even though it was my car I took, it was registered in my dad's name. So, on my 17th birthday, I was in court and placed into a juvenile detention center. My stay lasted three weeks. When I went to court again, the judge asked if anyone had seen me leave or come back and my parents said no. He dismissed my case. When I look back, I don't blame my parents one bit for anything they did trying to help me. Back then, we just didn't realize I was that depressed. It was assumed it was a stage.

Shortly after high school, I got married. We got married for a stupid reason...two paychecks were better than one. My husband was a very handsome guy I had gone to high school with and wouldn't have given me a second glance back then. When we met, he had no car, no job, no place to live. So I took him in. He was my trophy boy. The fat girl had done well.

Shortly after our second wedding anniversary, we separated for four months. When my husband got laid off from his job, he suddenly wanted to get back together. I'm sure it's because of monetary reasons. My parents helped us a lot. And of course I said yes. I didn't want the embarrassment of a broken marriage. I didn't want to fail. We reconciled.

We decided to have a baby, and after a couple of miscarriages we had our first son, John Alexander, on June 24, 2000. On June 28,2000, we were rushing him back to the hospital because he wouldn't eat and looked funny to me. He died later that day after being diagnosed with sepsis, a blood infection. I completely lost my mind. I worked at this same hospital. I remember the employees gathered around me outside, and I had to push them away. I took off running. I felt as though I couldn't breathe with everyone around me. I remember holding him one last time. He was so beautiful.

I remember by the time we got home, my baby's door had been shut to his room. I remember being forced to eat and taking a nerve pill. I woke up at 3 in the morning and began calling the funeral home asking if they had my baby yet. I then called a woman who had been my babysitter years earlier. She immediately came out and sat with me until dawn. My husband wouldn't get up and talk to me. I must have finally gone to sleep. I remember someone knocking on the door and asking my husband who it was. It was his dad and he had gotten the baby a grave plot. We had to arrange the funeral that day. We met my parents at the funeral home. The funeral director asked if we wanted a closed or open casket. I said closed. I remember my dad asking me if I was sure. I said yes because he was already bloated from the fluids they pumped into his body.

The day of the funeral was the worst day of my life. I remember walking into the chapel and seeing my grandma. I hugged her and then began asking who had brought her. I didn't think my grandma needed to see me in that kind of pain. My grandma shouldn't have been at the funeral of her great-grandson. I sat in the front row with my mom and my husband. All I could do was cry. I don't remember much of the actual funeral ceremony. I do remember going to the grave with my husband and pastor. After saying a prayer, I kicked off my heels and began running again. I wanted to get out of there. I wanted the nightmare to stop.

Three months after Alex died, I turned up pregnant again. Six weeks into the pregnancy, I miscarried. I was so relieved. I couldn't go through it again. I loved that baby more than I had ever loved anyone. I couldn't go through that emotional roller coaster again. Six weeks after the miscarriage, I was pregnant again. I remember the night it happened. I was looped up on nerve medication the doctors had given me and was passed out on my bed. I woke up and my husband was on top of me. I asked him what he was doing, and he said he wanted another son. I believe it was marital rape. I wasn't in my right mind at all. I remember hating him for getting me pregnant again.

I didn't want to go through with the pregnancy and felt very pressured by my husband, family and friends. My doctor placed me on anti-depressants during my sixth month of my pregnancy. After I had my son, Hayden Lee, I fell in love again. But, I was still grieving the death of my first son, and I had probably a double dose of post-partum depression. I remember sitting on my parent's porch, crying, for days at a time. When my son was ten months old, I asked my husband for a divorce. He agreed.

It was a rough divorce, and I attempted suicide twice during this time. The guilt I felt over my first son's death was enormous, and I was now taking care of an infant by myself. I couldn't handle the pressure. After my second attempt, I found a counselor I finally clicked with. I felt okay enough to attempt college. I didn't go after high school because I was too busy partying. I signed myself up for classes and financial aid and began in the winter of 2004. I loved college. They had a daycare onsite, so Hayden was always right there with me. I could stop in anytime to play with him. In May 2006, I graduated cum laude with an associates degree in journalism. Shortly afterwards, I developed a skin condition due to stress. I attempted to finish my bachelors degree, but the skin condition kept getting worse. I was so embarrassed I withdrew from college.

Now I'm just a stay-at-home mom on disability for major depression, major anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder. I hate myself. When will it ever end????