When I was eight, I heard about a three-year-old who fell in a water tank and drowned. The news shattered mothers in the small community we lived in. My own mother told me to be more vigilant of myself and my younger sibling.

It was then that I first contemplated suicide. I didn't know much about suicidal ideation, but I did understand that just by falling into a tank full of water, I could end my life and make it all look like an accident. Nothing had sounded more pleasing. My body would drown in the water along with the mental and physical pain I had been suffering but could never explain. To me, it felt like I possessed the power to switch it all off.

I never went through with it.

Maybe it was my grandmother’s little anecdotes about how badly parents coped with the loss of a child. I felt I had to wait till my sister was a little older so that losing me might not be as big of a trauma for my parents.

As I recall these stories, I don't feel ashamed. I know people who equate willingness to take one’s own life with cowardice. For them, I can only say that nothing could be farther from the truth.

Suicidal ideation is real. Shaming people by calling them cowards will not stop them from taking their own lives. Instead, for many, including myself, these notions of ‘cowardice’ and ‘get over it’ are just another example of stubborn ignorance toward mental health issues.

I've had chronic depression and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) before I knew what these terms meant. I only saw signs of them around me: I saw them in my behaviour towards people and I saw it being triggered by other people's behaviour towards me.

There was a time when I was so afraid of other people’s reactions that I would constantly recheck my own work to make sure I hadn't 'messed up', even if this was something I had done over and over again. Any bit of appreciation or acknowledgement meant more to me than it would to someone who was not constantly battling a crippling sense of failure.

I never shared what I was going through with colleagues or friends because I feared that would put them under undue pressure. I worried they'd have to tailor their lives around my triggers and needs, and that they'd never be able to share their issues with me because somehow, mine will always be bigger than theirs. I just didn't want to cause inconvenience.

How do you tell someone you love that when they're being controlling they reduce you to the six-year-old who was told that no matter how hard she screamed, no matter whom she would tell, no one would be able to hear or acknowledge her? Not even her own mother. You can't inflict that upon someone. I can't.

I couldn't even bring myself to tell the people closest to me, who knew I struggled with depression, to be just a little more mindful and look for apparent signs of distress. I felt that it was too much to ask for. Inconvenience again.

Instead, I focused on making sure that those around me knew that they were appreciated when they did something well or when they accomplished something they had been wanting to do. It gave me a sense of purpose so to speak, but it quickly became my only sense of purpose. It drained me, made me feel worse and made me feel that I was being taken for granted.

My depression led me to believe I could only be someone's friend if I was constantly giving, regardless of how I felt. The only way I could be accepted anywhere was if I had a role that meant I had to take in everything and fix it.

My depression falsely convinced me that most people I met thought I was worthless and that all my achievements in life were by fluke. Each award or recognition invited more and more pressure. I felt that I didn't deserve success and that I had to keep proving myself even more to earn respect. So, I saw myself performing to accommodate people's needs at times, even if it disrupted my own life’s rhythm and comfort.

During one particular trip with colleagues and friends, I spent the entire week being someone else entirely. Someone who had to strike a conversation the minute she got into a cab, someone who had to make an observation about a new bike on the road or a technology around the corner. None of it was brought on by anyone but myself and the need to perform to mask my own suffering.

Unfortunately, for me it is a cocktail of things - having PTSD means being stuck in an audio-visual about the most traumatic incidents of one’s life where these incidents playback at will.

Imagine sitting at a table with a dozen people around you, waiting for you to answer a question but all you can think in your head is an image of you being pinned down in a murky hallway as you struggle to breath.

Imagine being at your own wedding and having an image of hurriedly washing your blood-stained legs at age six.

Imagine that while writing this piece, you could hear your abuser say: "no one wants to hear from you." Imagine that and hope you never have to live it.

It's difficult for me to articulate how I feel at times because despite my illness, I also consider myself a functional human being who has work, friends and family to deal with.

For as long as I can remember, I felt that writing about my own experiences would hurt other people. Maybe they'll think that I'm calling them out on their insensitivity and that I'm asking for an easy pass.

But if there's anything I've learnt through this deep, annihilating pain is that every time you stop yourself from setting boundaries, from telling people that you are suffering, from rearranging parts of your life to better navigate your illness, you're pushing yourself further into the abyss. That your demons are winning when you choose not to stand up for yourself because you fear you'd hurt others.

To anyone who is suffering, I want you to know that you're not alone, you're not an inconvenience to anyone and that you can't and will not just get over it. You have the right to stand up for yourself. Those who love you for who you are will understand and help you navigate the trenches.

The problem are the people who are willingly insensitive, who choose not to be vigilant, who have no time to give compassion, and who judge you without ever sparing a minute to ask how you feel.

Rather than lecturing people about wishing away suicide or depression, spare a moment to listen, empathise and act. Someone who appears to have their life together may still be trapped in their eight-year-old self, contemplating a decision they won't live to regret.

Are you suffering from a mental illness or working as a counsellor to help people overcome it? Share your story with us at blog@dawn.com