Depression almost killed me. It’s time to strip the shame from mental illness.

For years of my adult life, I wanted to die every day.

I lived with depression. I tried every treatment I could get my hands on — more than 10 medications, constant therapy, residential treatment facilities, intensive outpatient programs, ketamine, cannabis, transcranial magnetic stimulation, and electroconvulsive (shock) therapy. I even stopped drinking alcohol. Nothing worked.

I’m among the roughly 30% of people with depression for whom medications don’t work, known as treatment-resistant depression. There are more than two million other people like me just in the U.S.

I thought about death constantly. The disease ravaged my mind and my body. The physicality of it made it extremely difficult to move or function. All I wanted to do was sleep. I felt the disease in every cell of my being. You know the physical feeling of the aches and shakes you get with a fever? Well, think of that all-consuming body sensation, then replace it with a feeling of lethargy, dread, and death. Everyone feels sadness sometimes, but with depression, the sadness is on steroids and never leaves you.

The disease ravaged my mind and my body.

I am a high-functioning person. I have a loving wife, three amazing children, and a successful professional career. And yet, as I drove to pick up my kids from a playdate or home from work, I would scan the trees alongside the road and pick out which ones would kill me if I plowed into them.

All I wanted was a tragic accident. Since most life insurance won’t pay out for suicide, an accident would ensure my family would be compensated, my kids would have a dad who died in an accident, and I wouldn’t have to live in misery anymore. This is the reality of this horrific disease.

Then, roughly one year ago, my life was saved.

I participated in a clinical trial for a new type of treatment for depression, known as deep brain stimulation surgery. And it worked.

Now on the other side of my depression, I can see how messed up our society’s approach to mental health is. People made me feel so ashamed for having this disease, for not being able to just “snap out of it,” and for seeking treatment to save my own life. I see it in the accusations that John Fetterman is “unfit” to serve in the U.S. Senate after he sought treatment for his depression.

I know now that I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. I was diagnosed with a disease that I didn’t ask for. The majority of society is ignorant when it comes to mental illness. That ignorance keeps those suffering silent.

I don’t want to stay silent anymore.

Because I had what looked like a successful life — a family, a job — people couldn’t understand that I was suffering. They would ask, “What do you have to be depressed about? Why don’t you just snap out of it?” Can you imagine thinking or saying something like that about someone with cancer? That would be absurd. Yet that is the reality of mental illness.

Speaking of cancer: When someone is diagnosed with it, people will rally behind them and their family and do everything to help them fight. If they conquer cancer, they are a “warrior.” If they succumb to the disease, they are remembered as a fighter who never gave up. Life insurance payouts are automatic. That is absolutely how it should be. It should be that way for every disease.

Well, it is definitely not that way for depression. There is typically judgment and avoidance, with minimal to no help for the person suffering and their family. When I had the courage to tell someone I had depression, I can’t count the number of times they would just sit there and stare at me without saying anything. No “I’m sorry to hear that,” or “That must be so hard,” or “How can I help?” Just an awkward stare.

When I tried electroconvulsive — shock — therapy, some told me they thought I was “crazy,” or tried to talk me out of it because they thought it was barbaric. For treatment-resistant depression like mine, electroconvulsive therapy is the “gold standard” treatment. Would you ever judge a human being for getting the gold standard of treatment for cancer with chemotherapy?

Unfortunately, just like all of my other interventions, shock therapy didn’t work for me — it left me with memory loss and the same crushing depression.

» READ MORE: Depression can get better. These four Philadelphians are living proof.

Then, in August 2022, I found relief. I participated in a clinical trial for deep brain stimulation surgery for depression out of Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. It involved all-day brain surgery to implant electrodes in two locations in the mood portion of my brain to provide a constant electrical charge. The prospect of the surgery didn’t scare me; I was hoping a surgical complication would arise that would kill me.

Instead, I awoke from the surgery. Once doctors switched the device on, and a pacemaker in my chest began delivering millions of electrical pulses per day to my brain, I was instantaneously cured.

Clearly, my form of depression is caused by a deficit of electrical activity in my brain. Because once the device began firing, I have not had one suicidal thought. I no longer feel like lying in bed all day, crushed by the darkness. My voice sounds different. My face doesn’t droop. My skin complexion looks healthier. I make plans and follow through. I can now walk my dog. I am not happy all the time — I have normal ups and downs — but I no longer have the disease of depression in my body.

I am, however, still angry at how depression is viewed by society, and will dedicate the rest of my life to eliminating the stigma.

When I was depressed, so many people told me they didn’t know how to help me. The guidance to all is very simple: Show empathy, love, kindness, and support. Heck, even give the person a dang hug. It also helped me when someone asked if I was suicidal. It wasn’t triggering for me; it actually had the exact opposite effect, by making me feel like someone understood the hell I was going through.

Here’s another bit of advice: Take something off the primary caregiver’s plate. The only person this disease was worse for than me was my wife. She had so much on her shoulders trying to manage our life with the extra burden of losing a functioning father and husband. All of the to-dos were on her. When someone proactively took something off her plate, it helped me tremendously. The caregiver also feels the stigma.

To my fellow sufferers of treatment-resistant depression: Keep up the fight. Continue to seek ways to find relief. The disease wants you to remain silent and not try to get help. Don’t let it win.

Jonathan Nelson lives in Newtown with his family.