I had been carrying it for almost two years before I said anything. In my family, you don\'t talk about "depression" — you talk about being "stressed" or "under pressure" and you pray and you push through. I had accepted that telling them would mean one of two things: jokes about weakness or a deliverance session.
So I told my mother first. I sat her down and said: Mummy, I have not been okay for a long time. I need help. There was a long silence. Then she asked if I had eaten. I started to cry. Then she started to cry. She said: I didn\'t know. I thought you were just quiet. She held my hand for thirty minutes and didn\'t say anything else, and somehow that was everything.
My father found out a week later — not from me, from her. He didn\'t say much. But that evening he knocked on my door, put a plate of food on my desk, said nothing, and left. That was his way of saying he heard me. I know it\'s not what everyone gets. Some people share and are met with dismissal or worse. But I am so glad I said something. The weight of carrying it alone was heavier than the fear of telling the truth.