To whoever you are now,

It wasn't too long ago when you told me seven little words that branded themselves into my memory. Seven is the perfect number, isn't it? Well, perhaps your sentence was the perfect thing to say. I haven't forgotten it. I shrugged it off, I told myself you didn't have reason to say that, I told myself you just were angry and bitter about whatever, and I forgot it. But I didn't really forget it. See, those seven little words--like seven deadly sins--snuck their way into my memory and my mind and my conscience and my heart and infected me with self-doubt and anti-pity and self-loathing and anything else that could possibly go wrong with seven words.

Twenty seven letters. Eight syllables. Seven words.

"You don't deserve to feel that way."

At first, I was surprised you had said that. What did you mean? You didn't know me. You knew nothing about me. How could you judge what I had been through, and told me that my emotions didn't matter? That my depressions were invalid? My feelings were about no one but myself, and I wasn't enforcing them on anyone else. Why tell me I didn't deserve to feel that way? You knew nothing about me, you didn't (and still don't) know my name. But you told me that I didn't deserve to have my heart feel like a stone inside my hollow chest, to have a sinking feeling of something I couldn't label or describe, to cry or fall asleep crying or wake up crying, to stare into empty space and wonder if I'm losing my mind. You didn't mean that I didn't deserve to be sad, like you were telling me I deserved to be happy and I had done nothing wrong. No, you told me that I didn't deserve to be depressed because my life wasn't as bad as someone else's. Of course, all you knew about me was that I was an American, too. Being an American automatically exempts me from any negative feelings because my appreciation and blessings should be enough to alter the chemicals in my brain.

See, you told me seven words and somehow I ended up telling them to myself.

I didn't deserve to feel this way. Who was I to complain? I never worried about money, my parents had a healthy marriage, my family loved each other, I had purpose in my life, I had talents and hobbies, I was slightly pretty, I was thin, I had friends, I made good grades--everything should be perfect because my life should be perfect. Of course, no one has a perfect life. But I do admit, objectively (can I even objectively admit this?) that I do not feel empty, empty like I need to be filled. I am filled. I do not feel numb, in the sense that I have had too much pain or too little. See, what you said was true. I didn't--and I still don't--deserve to be depressed. I have everything going for me, and I don't even want anything more. I am not empty. I have purpose. I am loved.

So what's wrong with me?

The problem with your words was not in their truth. You were right, and you still are right. I shouldn't feel this way. But for some unexplainable reason, I do. There are no gaps in my life, there are no unanswered questions. But still, I feel sad. For no reason. I am happy most of the time, but still I get this inevitable shaking sadness that paralyzes me. It happens at the strangest of times, and I can never tell you why it happens.

Last year, a professor told me that sometimes the level of dopamine or whatever-a-mine drops and rises, without cause. We feel things for no reason. It was odd to hear him say that, and to realize that I didn't need a reason. At the same time, it's almost so hopeless to hear that. Because if there is no reason, what do I have to fix? If I am said for a reason, then I can find a solution. But if I can't predict it or determine why it happens--what then?

It's not hard to fight my sadness. I have comfort in the no reason, I have comfort in knowing it's not permanent. At least, it's not permanent right now.

So yes, there is no problem in the truth of your words. The problem comes in the impact they had on me--they taught me to shut myself off and shut my feelings down. To never tell anyone what goes on inside, to ignore my sadness because I never could explain why I was depressed. To keep a smile on my face and stitches in my heart, because why would I ever want to burden anyone with a real reason?

I made up reasons to be sad, once. And it helped, because I got to talk about my depression without having to explain or people to think that I'm just a stupid crazy little girl.

When you ask me how I am, I'll always tell you that I'm fine. Maybe at that moment, I really am fine. Or maybe at that moment, I'm not but I will be. Or maybe it doesn't matter if I am, only that I should be fine.

I don't know whether to hate you or thank you for those silly seven words. I could never hate anyone, I've never hated anyone, so I guess there's only one option left.

Thanks.