MDD. My Diagnosis.

Today, I went to my first psychiatric appointment. It was hard. Going there, sitting in the waiting area, stepping into the office—all of it was heavy. A lot of things were racing in my mind, like they were competing to be the loudest thought.

The day before my appointment, I felt gloomy. I didn’t know why exactly, but it was just there, that familiar weight in my chest. I cried last night before I went to sleep. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was the realization that this was actually happening—maybe it was both.

And yet, despite all of it, I went.

I wasn’t sure if I was ready. But then again, when would I ever be ready? How long would I wait? Until my mom or dad finally told me, “Go”? Until someone validated my pain and told me that I was allowed to seek help? No one was going to say it. No one was going to give me permission. So I had to give it to myself.

So, I went.

And then came the diagnosis.

MDD. Major Depressive Disorder.

Hearing it from my doctor felt foreign. Unreal.

I mean, I knew I had depression and anxiety. I’ve lived with it for years—the intrusive thoughts, the exhaustion, the constant battle in my head. But to hear it spoken out loud, to have it labeled by a professional, to see it written down as a diagnosis? It felt different.

Suddenly, it wasn’t just:

• Bad days.

• Heavy emotions.

• Overthinking too much.

• Being “dramatic” or “too sensitive.”

  
  

No. It’s Major Depressive Disorder. A chemical imbalance in my brain.

Huh. My brain.

So This Is What Years of Stress Does to a Brain

I always thought I was just "handling things." Just surviving. Just pushing through. I convinced myself that I was fine, that I was just having a rough time. But today, my doctor explained it to me—this happens when someone has been under immense stress for too long. The weight of everything I carried, everything I never spoke about, all the silent battles, the unprocessed emotions, the pain I tucked away just to function—it’s all taken a toll. And my brain? It finally said enough.

It’s not just me being weak. It’s not just in my head. It’s not for attention.

It’s real. It has a name. It’s an illness.

I think part of me always feared that maybe I was overreacting. That maybe I was just being dramatic. But this diagnosis changed that. Now, I can’t deny it anymore.

Medication. Already?

My doctor prescribed me medication immediately—Vortioxetine for daily use and Alprazolam or Lorazepam just in case of an episode. I won’t lie—this shook me a little. I always thought medication was for people who were at their breaking point. And now, here I am. So it really was that bad, huh?

I took my first pill today, after breaking my fast because I didn’t have the energy to continue. Lightheaded. Tired. Static. That’s how I feel. Like my brain is still trying to process everything, but my body is already drained from carrying it all.

Telling My Mom. Feeling Nothing.

I told my mom. She didn’t really react much. Maybe she didn’t understand the weight of what I just told her, or maybe she just didn’t know what to say. Either way, her lack of reaction didn’t hurt—it just confirmed what I already knew. I’ve always had to face this alone.

But at least now, I have a name for what I’m fighting.

What Now?

I don’t know. I still don’t know what to make of this. MDD. It feels like something separate from me, yet something that has always been there. I don’t know how I feel about it yet.

I just know that tomorrow, I have to go to work.

I have to pretend I’m okay.

I have to keep up the act.

And the thought of that? It feels heavy.

I’m afraid this will change how people see me at work.

I’m afraid this will affect my motivation, my drive.

I’m afraid I won’t be able to pretend like before.

But am I not normal anymore? That thought lingers.

And yet, I know deep down—I am still me. Even if this illness is real, even if it now has a name, I am still Teha.

I may not be okay today.

But maybe, just maybe—one day, I will be.