They tell me that my grandfather loved life. I never met him – he passed away many years before I was born. But I've always wondered what it's like to love life. If I could just get through life without too much pain, I would be happy. Happy. That might not be the right word. Do I really know what being happy feels like? Satisfied is more like it.

My childhood home was not a happy one. Growing up in the shadow of "the War," there was a lot of sadness, unspoken grief emanating not only from the grandparents who survived, but also from my parents who absorbed it with their mother's milk. Anxiety was considered a normal way of life, especially when it came to us children, who had to be overprotected both from the elements and from the evil eye. Life was scary, with danger lurking around every corner. How could anyone love a life like that? And why in the world would I want to live a long life and turn into my grandmother, who was always worried and on edge?

I've fantasized about death ever since I can remember myself. With the transformations of my teenage years, my ideas about how to achieve that goal became more specific. But I knew I would never do it. I couldn't do it to my parents who weren't particularly happy to begin with. I felt responsible for their wellbeing and determined to continue suffering for their sake, at least until I was grown up and out of the house.

At a difficult stage in my life, Hashem sent me a gift in the form of my husband. I got married and moved away from my family, and for the first time in my life, I actually felt happy and excited about the future.

But lifelong patterns don't disappear overnight. My happiness didn't last long.

It wasn't until things got very dark, in some hazy postpartum state, that I realized that I wasn't simply unhappy; I was clinically depressed.

Life felt unbearable. The future looked like endless torture. Hope was gone. The only thing I looked forward to was death. And yet now, as an adult, I did not spent time contemplating the easiest way to end it all, as I did as a teenager. This time I had responsibilities towards my husband and my growing family. I owed it to them to find some meaning, some hope, some joy in my existence.

I'd love to tell you that I went to the doctor, got a prescription for an antidepressant, and lived happily ever after. But that's not what happened. At first, not wanting to expose my baby to drugs through my milk, I tried various natural remedies. My world remained dark and scary – but there was one glimmer of light. It shone whenever I touched the Divine, whether I was lighting Shabbos candles, or separating challah, or sitting in the sukkah. With time, I began to consciously look for such moments by opening a Chumash and reading a few pesukim of the parshah, or using a quiet moment to simply talk to Hashem.

My relationship with Hashem was not always rosy. I was angry and bitter, and I was upset that He put me into this world of suffering, condemning me to life-long torture. At the same time, connecting to Hashem was my only source of pleasure. I had nowhere else to turn, so I turned to Him. In my internal conversations with myself, when I would question the purpose of my existence, I would tell myself that I would stay in this world because Hashem wanted me here, and that meant that my life had a purpose.

As my baby got older, I began to feel better. But after the birth of my next child, life became bleak and hopeless again. Eventually I surrendered and filled my prescription.

At first, I only felt worse. In addition to the emotional symptoms, I experienced lots of unpleasant physical side effects. I couldn't sleep at night and felt like a zombie during the day. But I stuck with it, simply because I didn't have any energy or desire to do anything differently. And slowly, both the physical and the emotional symptoms subsided. Life gradually became easier and easier.

I'm still far from happily ever after. I have my ups and downs, and I haven't learned to love life. But I’m trying to make the best of it. I actively look for moments in life when I experience pleasure, and I thank Hashem for those. I’m also slowly learning healthier patterns of relating to the world. As it turns out, I can love my children without experiencing intense anxiety over anything that threatens their wellbeing. Who knew?

I have a love-hate relationship with medication. I’ve been on and off, and I’ve tried different ones. Each one has its own side effects. On an antidepressant, my emotions – both negative and positive – feel dull and subdued, but that’s much easier to handle than the overwhelmingly intense negative emotions. I am still searching for the perfect remedy, but I suspect it doesn't exist. Like many things in life, it's a trade-off.

But there is a gift I received through my experience that I am grateful for, and that is a sense of purpose. I know I am in this world on a mission. I might not know its precise details, but I know that Hashem has a plan, and I am trying hard to live up to His faith in me.

It is out of this sense of purpose that I embarked on a mission of compiling a book on the subject of clinical depression and anxiety through the lens of a religious Jew. I collected many people's stories and added my own. I included articles from rabbis and mental health professionals. But above all, I attempted to address the philosophical questions that plagued me throughout life, and especially during the darkest times, through a Torah perspective. This book, Calling Out to You: Journeys and Discoveries through Clinical Depression and Anxiety, is now available from Menucha Publishers or at your local bookstore. It is my hope that individuals who read this book will gain insights, comfort, and the knowledge that they are not alone.

Editor’s Note: The author’s name has been changed to protect her privacy.