My eight year story.

I've had an interesting experience with depression and anxiety. I think it first appeared when I was thirteen, co-enciding with puberty and a rather unpleasant discovery from my childhood.

I'll be forward with this. As a young child I was sexually assaulted on numerous occasions. At first it was the son of my babysitter when I was too young. Then it was my next door neighbour who'd lure me to the section of chicken wire fencing off his place from mine. I wasn't old enough to know better, so I went with it. It was like a game at the time, and the memory always stuck with me - though when you grow up not realising what sexual assault is, you tend to think that it's something everyone goes through.
Fastforward to 2013, and I was in year seven at highschool, sitting in stifling heat trudging through a rather boring humanities class where we were discussing our rights. I'm not sure how, but the innocent comment of "you have the right not to be touched in a way you don't like" suddenly clicked with that memory of my nextdoor neighbour standing behind the chicken wire.
I felt sick. Then anxious. Then utterly miserable.
For the rest of that schoolday no one could get a propper sentence out of me. For years after that, I self harmed and occasionally attempted to act on suicidal thoughts.
It took me far too long to open up about my depression, and I was roughly nineteen before I finally saw a councellor to address the issues my experience had raised (I had attended counselling as a child but I merely saw it as a play date; I'd play with the Power Ranger figurines constantly).
I was put on antidepressants, and things finally started to settle. I began feeling more like a human being should, rather than just some dark scribble on a colourful picture.

On a less horrific note, during puberty I always had trouble with period regularity. Either it'd be short and light, heavy and long, or it simply wouldn't show up for months at a time (my record is 11 months). I guess I always figured something would come of it, that perhaps I was infertile as a result.
Sure enough, earlier this year I was refferred by my doctor to get an ultrasound of my ovaries. As I lay there with an unglorified probe in a condom shoved up my hoohah, I could see on the screen that it looked like my ovaries were more similar to dalmatians than the regular apperance of a healthy ovary, what with all the spots. Usually, healthy ovaries should have few to no cysts. Apparently my body decided to 'go hard or go home', as I had 40 and 32 on both my ovaries.
Being diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) answered a lot of questions; acne, weight, fatigue, and funnily enough, depression.

A few months later and I'm the happiest I've ever been, knowing that my lingering depression isn't because I can't get over an event that I've put behind me, or that something's wrong with me; it's simply a hormone thing, which I'm eternally thankful for.
Right now, I'm in the clear.