I was six and it lived in the loneliness I felt when my parents left for work.
I turned eight and it wore the face of my mother when she was told that the baby had miscarried.
when I was ten, I saw it move into me like a family into an empty house. it was the old paint under the new, the rearranged furniture, the dust settling on the bed.
at 12 it started to creep up on me. it was in my circle of friends, waiting to seek me out. it was in the teacher who had a white tan line where a wedding band used to glimmer, who both spoke and graded harshly.
at 13 it exploded into my head like lightning. it was a blank numbness that swallowed me completely, engulfed me and embraced me at the same time, without me ever realizing it. it was the moon-soaked sheets that I wrapped myself in at 12 am, after staying home from school for the 5th consecutive day.
at 15 it is my best friend with her puffy black hair, having a panic attack inside her english classroom. it's the way she pushes herself to the edge of her limits. it's me, and it's her, and it's living in the bursting chests of most of the people I know.
at 16 it is the face of my grandma who never went out and never learned English and never did the things she said she wanted to do. it's in my friend's voice when he says, "she doesn't look depressed. how could I have known?"
            and I want to tell him that depression doesn't ever look the same for anyone. it creeps up on people in such a sly way, inhabiting the hollow bones of the people who have lived it. it's clever. it knows how to hide.
            depression is something not everyone knows how to love.
it lives inside me, and gives me as much life as it takes away.