I was sure that once I was cured I would be cured forever. I never thought about the possibility of a relapse, bringing me back to square one. I never encountered the question if I was really and truly cured of my ailment. I had just assumed I was.

I was slowly returning to normal. I was laughing at the little things again, smiling for no reason at all. Instead of having no reason to be happy, I had no reason to be sad. Until then, I had never really understood how much my depression had eaten away at me, torturing me until I wasn’t even myself anymore. I’d forgotten who I really was, and instead became someone totally different.

Everyone would tell me how happy I seemed now. They said how worried they were about me, how I used to look so sad all the time, and how was I feeling now? I could honestly say that I felt great, and they would smile in return.

For once, everything was going my way. I was gaining an audience to my side of the story, and the people that once made me so sad were now the miserable ones. I laughed at their misfortune, and enjoyed my blessings.

Right before I peaked, I was more than happy. I had a good life, socially and mentally, and I no longer had depression hanging over my head, threatening to crush me if I dared step out of line. I thrived on being different, excelled at everything I did. I took up old hobbies, and reconnected with old friends. Like me, they were happy to see me better.

Then, just like it had the first time, everything began going downhill. It started out slowly, finding myself without a lab partner in Biology, afraid to raise my hand in class, and being the first one out the door when the bell rang just so no one would see me. Then it got even worse. I hid in the dark corner of the halls so no one would notice I was there, and ran to get from class to class. I sat in the front, so teacher would notice if anyone was picking on me. I felt paranoid, like everyone had the same goal in mind, to make my life miserable.

I found myself afraid to go near anyone or strike up a conversation, for fear of being made fun of. I only spoke when spoken to, and I never dared say more than what was absolutely necessary. Public speaking was more than a nightmare, it was a murderous reality.

I was already seeing a therapist for my previous diagnosis of depression. She noticed I was going backward in my treatment sessions, so she tried different techniques. When nothing worked, she decided to have me come more frequently so she could get an eye on me. She warned that if I didn’t improve I would go back on suicide watch. That just made me more depressed.

I was in a better living situation than when I first got depression, but I still found myself to be just as sad. I was in a new school with old and new friends, but there were old and new enemies as well. I joined the play, and had a sense of belonging, but I had to leave some of my old clubs behind. I was cured from my first ailment, but I was now plagued with a new version of the same disease.