When my family finally convinced me to go to a mental hospital, I was diagnosed as suicidally depressed.
Well, I could have told you that. What did surprise me is they diagnosed me as what they called the worst kind of depressive — a “smiling” depressive.
This kind of depression is masked so well by the person suffering from it, that nobody asks if they can help.
My whole life in the years before treatment were about hiding my condition and what made me feel better.