January 1st, 2007, I wrote in my diary “I am so happy at this moment in my life! … This year has been challenging, scary, overwhelming, but so f-ing amazing. I survived the rough spots, the fears, the anxiety in class, feelings of stupidity. I feel bright, smart, and strong. I feel attractive, and sexy. YES!”

Prior to that moment of sheer happiness, I thought it came in a bottle of anti-depressants, and therapy. From the age of twelve to about 25, happiness happened for me in an hour here, a day there, maybe a week or two if I was lucky.

The truly happy moments of my adolescence and early twenties I could probably write down on a sheet of paper – that is how rare they were.

Depression crippled me in many ways. I was constantly sick and missed a lot of school when I was eight grade. I was teary, emotional, lacked confidence, and felt hopeless. I couldn’t understand why boys didn’t want to date me, or why I didn’t have more friends. When it was really bad, I felt worthless, undesirable, unlovable. I contemplated suicide: planned my note, how I would kill myself, when, and where. I lacked ambition academically or career wise. I felt like I was hiding in the shadows of my professional-PhD-holding parents, and attractive, ivy-league educated brother. I felt like the runt of the litter, like I didn’t belong in my own family.

I never did take scissors to my wrist, and I got help, real help. A therapist who I could finally talk to, and pills to control the chemical imbalance.

Prozac, then Effexor were short-term fixes. They made me feel better, stable, but never happy. I didn’t know what happiness was, sustained, drug-free, happiness. Now I do.

There were periods when I was drug in therapy free in high school and college. I would have periods of confidence, health, and general wellbeing. I made good grades mostly, because I wanted to work hard, but I was terrible at setting real future goals. But I was desperately seeking true happiness. I didn’t know how to.

Things started to change around the age of 24; I had a wonderful girlfriend, and a job. I was able to move out of my parent’s home. Sure, I hated my job, and was broke, and still taking meds, but I was in a healthy relationship, and was independent. Things were good. Not amazing, but good. I had great friends, and family, and, my wonderful therapist.

It wasn’t until graduate school, that happiness found me. Something just clicked. I quit my frustrating job, moved out of my apartment, and said painful good-byes to my girlfriend. I flew for twenty-four hours to Australia, and embarked on a frightening, overwhelming adventure in Journalism school. The beginning was terrible: I was overwhelmed, scared. I felt stupid, unworthy of being enrolled in such a prestigious university. I would cry after class, or develop panic attacks during media studies. After a month of anxiety, I went to the university counseling center. Again, in therapy, but free from medication, I found myself changing, physically and emotionally. I started to look in the mirror and say “He-llo gorgeous!” The material being taught in class, including the panic-inducing one, started to make sense. My classmates supported me, and helped tutored me when I needed it. Second semester, as my friend Engel put it, I “blossomed into this beautiful young women.”

I started picking up men, hot men and developed self-esteem, as well as sexual confidence.

I made good grades because I wanted to be learning, I wanted to do well, prove to myself and my parents I could succeed. I challenged myself, taking my therapist’s advice.

When things got bad, I called my parents, or my girlfriend. I wrote in my journal. I cried to my therapist. She taught me to change my thinking, to really delve into my psyche, my thought processes, and change it in a way that no had before, not even my shrink of ten years. I slowly stopped putting my life in the binary of everything is amazing, or everything is terrible. I tried to focus on the good, and when things got bad, my therapist would ask me “is thinking ‘what if’ helpful? Is getting stressed out over eating a cookie helpful? Does getting stressed out change the situation? The answer is no, to all.

Six months after that journal entry, being single, living with my parents, and working at a place I love, I can finally say it again.

“I am happy.”