I asked one of my best friends two days before my 20th birthday, "What would you do if you were depressed?"

"I'd talk to you, Doaa," he replied.

Although it was sweet of him to think that, something inside of me said, "I don't want that role anymore. I'm fed up with being the cheerful person people depend on to pull them out of temporary depression or the one they'd call when they are having a bad time."

Another friend called me a “crisis friend,” and I knew that was too much for me to handle. I am always having to suppress my feelings for the sake of others. At times when I feel like all I want is to cry and be hugged, I have to listen to my friends rant and soothe them. When I do happen to mention that I'm feeling down, my friends are shocked; they forget that I'm human and moan, "you have changed!" That makes me rarely open up to anyone.

Living in Gaza means experiencing depression; we long for things other people take for granted—like electricity all day long and potable water. If you give in to your depression, you'll drown in an endless circle of doubt and fear. Sometimes I think some depression is positive, because it can push you forward if you learn to “use” your negative feelings productively. But that’s only sometimes.

A kindred spirit from the 1700s

Thomas Chatterton, an English poet who wrote under the identity of  a 15th century monk named Thomas Rowley, was 17 and 9 months when he committed suicide in 1770. (What can I say? I’m an English literature major…) Chatterton felt alienated not only from society but also from the people in his immediate circle. He held grudges against people in authority as well, since he held them responsible for making people's lives miserable. I can relate to that; none of our political leaders represent Palestinians well, and we are surrounded by oppressive governments in Egypt and Israel.

The young poet was not regarded as intelligent and no one believed his poetry was his own. That was too much for him to bear and he ended his life with poison. Today, however, he is regarded as the first English Romantic poet—an icon. Isn't it ironic?

I just turned 20 myself, and as my birthday approached, I found suicide dominating my thoughts. Why not end my life now, before I turn 20? Just like Chatteron? It felt like I had nothing to lose. I've been trapped for 20 years in a space of less than 365 km, with the electricity off most of the time and the possibility of a new war each time a clash occurs between Israeli and Hamas forces on the border. A friend of mine laughed hysterically when I told him my idea. He said my age is only a number and doesn't really matter. But I said no, it does. Why couldn’t he see the fine line between 19 and 20 and what it meant to me?

The birthday comes

Once my birthday came, I realized I had spent 20 years on this earth, yet I am not convinced I still have much to do in my life or that better things are coming. There is no evidence at all that the blockade on Gaza will lift any time soon, allowing travel in and out, and jobs to be created. I don't usually cry about the past, but I'm worried about a future of repeated scenarios. I'm worried I'll be 30 and living through the same power outages, lack of water, shortage of jobs and fear of war. I would like to imagine a life in which I don’t care about these things. But I couldn’t.

Now my birthday is past and I’m 20 and my friend teased me, saying, “Hey, you made it; congrats!” I wasn't in the mood to accept any felicitations. With each post on Facebook, with each message, with each call, I knew it was real. I'm officially 20.

I'm not happy though. I had been so afraid of entering my 20s; I spent so much time reflecting on it, the way we foolishly do when we want something to happen and at the same we don't. Another friend called and reminded me again that it's the age of the soul that matters. I knew she was right but still, something inside made me feel awkward.

I feel nostalgic. What distinguishes one human being from another is his/her memories; whenever we feel nostalgic, we're actually experiencing a feeling of longing for ourselves, for what we used to be. I feel that right now. I miss me terribly. I miss being 16. My friend keeps reminding me that I'm traveling soon to the United States (for a semester-long study-abroad program) and this should make me joyful. But I am not. I can’t. I have heard many stories about Israel refusing to give permits to Gazans for no reason, and of Jordan prohibiting us from entering to fly out of the Amman airport. I know I've never held a gun in my hand or worked with military resistance forces, but I know many others who are “innocent” as well and have not been allowed to exit. I picture an Israeli officer looking at my photo, disliking it and just because he's a bit moody that morning or maybe had a fight with his wife, he decides to reject my request to leave.

I haven't seen my older brother, who lives in Saudi Arabia, for two years; he can't risk coming back and losing his scholarship when he can’t leave again. He had to say happy birthday through a voice message on Facebook, since the power was off that day and we couldn’t talk by Skype. On my birthday, I went to sleep at 7 p.m. since the power was off and there was no way to celebrate. I'm 20 and I have never seen another part of the world except this 365 km of Gaza. I'm 20 and all I have been thinking of is the most painless and quickest way to end my life. I'm 20 and lonely.

The dream

I had a dream in which a friend took my hand and dragged me to a cliff and asked me to jump. I told her we might die if we jump, but she jumped and left me, so I had to follow. A friend of mine recently said, "Doaa, you repeat the word fear too much. Have you ever noticed that?"

If I died now, I’d never do all of the crazy things in my dreams–things that seem mundane, but are difficult here in Gaza, like learning to play the violin, and running down the street as fast as I can and screaming. Now the question is whether I can find the courage to go on, to believe that I can somehow make them happen. And whether I can discover once again the joy I used to get from the crazy kids laughing in the streets, swearing at each other; the sunset; the lovely chats with my friends; delving into a book and falling asleep before I realize it; stargazing; running down the street when it's dark; and getting up in the morning and being alive.

I feel I haven't done anything worthy and if I do die (now that I have lost the only chance available to die at 19 and follow Chatterton's romantic example), I'll just be a part of the void. I want to be more than that.