Twelve years ago, when I was only three years old, my mom suffered from a depression. It was quite a hard time with desperate thoughts and long strange nights. Everyone around her had to deal with it, which made it even harder for her; she didn't want to disappoint them and wanted to be a good mother for me and my little brother. Her religion was also playing a big role in it: as a Catholic raised child she had to sing songs like 'it's my fault, my fault, it's my own stupid fault'. She was feeling guilty about a lot of things even though she didn't have to: it was the insanity of her thoughts and feelings.

Nevertheless, many people didn't see it and thought that she was crazy. They were having a lack of understanding her, underrating her depression and said that she shouldn't act like the way she did. Perhaps they didn't know how to deal with it, which I can fully understand, but more important is the fact that they didn't help her and instead made it worse.

I don't want to judge any religion or human being, the things I said are just ways in which I experience it. I just want to make clear that a depression isn't something from which you can recover by doing some more nice things or so. A depression is a disease, just like cancer. It's real, hard and physical disease and I don't want people to underrate it. My mother isn't actually crazy, insane, weird person; she recovered from all the wrong opinions about a depression and to me she is a real hero.