A/N: This was my entry for The Christmas Contest 2016, which incorporates the #freementalillness campaign. The story covers anxiety and depression, which is a very personal issue for me, as I sought treatment for anxiety and depression earlier this year after struggling in silence for many years.

In writing this story, I really hope to raise awareness, and to encourage others to speak out. If just one person reading this who is suffering in silence like I was realises that they are not alone, and that there is help out there, I will consider this a success.

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The sky is particularly grey today.

It's funny how depression does that to you. When trapped in the tight, putrid tendrils of the disease, the brain has a remarkable ability to pick up on every single miserable detail possible on any given day. Had it been gloriously sunny, without a cloud in the sky, I probably wouldn't have noticed. But I'm sure my mind would have found something equally as sullen to fixate upon as I gazed idly out of the window, pretending to watch mile after mile of wintry English countryside whizzing by.

That's just the way it is.

The seat beside me has remained mercifully empty throughout the journey so far. For this I am immensely relieved; God bless the awkward British public and our unspoken rule that one should not sit directly next to a fellow passenger unless absolutely necessary. I revel in the quiet solitude of the carriage, enjoying these final few moments of quiet before I will be thrown into the exhausting chaos that is Birmingham city centre in the run-up to Christmas.

A city centre is just about the worst place for me. Packed, enclosed, and completely overwhelming, it would be enough to get even the most composed person's stress levels rising. As for me, a perpetually anxious and irritable being, it's pretty much my idea on hell on earth.

Why, then, did I voluntarily agree to pass an entire day in this most hated place?

Because, unfortunately, even after ten years, I still haven't managed to pluck up the courage to tell anyone about my anxiety and depression. The thought of doing so pretty much terrifies me more than the prospect of a day at the packed Christmas market; it's easier to endure one intensely uncomfortable day than a lifetime of being treated differently.

The train jolts a little as it grinds to a halt; we are pulling into Birmingham airport station, the final stop before the city centre. My heart sinks as I take in the horde of people lining the platform – so much for my final ten minutes of solitude. As the carriage doors slide open and the mass of passengers cram inside, I stare determinedly out of the window, hoping to make myself look as unapproachable as possible.

It's no use. Within a minute or so, in my peripheral vision I just catch sight of someone slipping into the seat beside me, causing me to instinctively shuffle ever so slightly closer to the window.

Great.

This shouldn't be a big deal at all, really, and I despise the way that my insides instantly begin to clam up as my brain whirs into overdrive. So what if there is a person sitting next to you? I attempt to reason with myself – but unfortunately, as always when my anxiety flares up, reason does not seem to factor into my thought process.

The way my panic-stricken brain sees it, I am now trapped – and that terrifies me. Should I suddenly find it too much and need to get the hell out of here, I will be forced to make conversation with the stranger – and it's hard to decide whether that scares me more than the thought that I am stuck in such close proximity to another human being until we reach the station and I can escape.

I am so preoccupied with this internal monologue of panic that it takes me a good few moments to realise my companion has spoken.

"God, it's manic today!" they say breathlessly. "I don't know what I was thinking, arranging to come to Birmingham on Black Friday weekend!"

I reflexively stiffen, desperately attempting to process this unexpected turn of events. This is definitely, one hundred percent not what is supposed to happen on British public transport!

Cringing inside as I realise I will now be forced to make a reply, I turn reluctantly away from the window and find myself face-to-face with a slightly flushed young woman with kind hazel eyes and impossibly shiny golden hair softly framing her face in gentle waves. As she busies herself with unravelling the snowy white scarf from around her delicate neck and settles back in her seat, I simply gape helplessly, failing to comprehend what is currently happening.

It's easy to forget, sometimes, that people don't know me; or at least, don't know about the intense social anxiety which plagues me every day. With people I know, I can comfortably go about my life safe in the knowledge that even if they don't know why, they're aware that I sometimes just don't feel up to contributing to a conversation on any particular day. With strangers, however, it's a completely different story, and I suddenly realise how long it's been since someone new has struck up a conversation with me as if I'm normal.

Unfortunately, this puts me in a very difficult position. This woman is, of course, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm depressed and experience severe difficulty in speaking to new people – if I don't reply, it will seem to her as if I'm just very rude. And I realise I don't want her to think that. She chose to be polite and strike up a conversation – I therefore owe it to her to take a giant leap out of my comfort zone and reply as if this is something I do all the time.

"Yeah, I feel the same way," I mutter shakily, my voice typically coming out all strange and scratchy. "I didn't really consider the date back when I organised this trip."

I wait for her smirk at my painful awkwardness; but oddly, she doesn't seem to notice. Either that or she's really making a really good job of pretending to be oblivious – by far the more likely option.

"Same!" she trills, her voice light and melodic like the tinkling of bells. "It's been organised for so long, though – I couldn't cancel at the last minute!

"So, what brings you to Birmingham?" she enquires now, earnest hazel eyes still upon me.

I usually find maintaining eye contact extremely difficult, but the easy kindness in this woman's expression relaxes me a little.

"Probably the same as everyone else on this train," I reply, feeling the corners of my lips tugging into a smile. "I'm Christmas shopping, with my dad – who I really should visit more often."

I expect her to regard me with a look of distaste – the bad son who avoids spending time with the parents – but to my surprise, she nods sympathetically.

"God, I know – it's so difficult to find the time, isn't it?" she sighs. "The weekends just seem to disappear!"

It's hard to know what to say to this, so we lapse briefly into silence. As I debate whether it is now acceptable to return to silence and solitude, I suddenly realise I haven't asked about her plans.

"Are you Christmas shopping too?" I ask before I can stop myself.

She smiles, eyes sparkling.

"Theoretically – although I doubt much shopping will actually get done," she laughs.

"Oh?"

"I'm meeting up with a friend who I haven't seen for ages," she grins. "In fact, the last time I saw her was at her wedding six months ago, so we have quite a lot of catching up to do!"

With that, she launches into a full-blown account of the wedding, from the colour of her bridesmaid's dress to the food they ate at the reception. I watch, enthralled as she speaks, her face so animated and youthful as she informs me all about her friend's special day. There is something so captivating about her; some tangible sense of aliveness radiating from her glowing face, and I find myself basking comfortably in its warmth.

To my surprise, I find the conversation flows much easier from this point onwards. I feel, somewhere deep within, as if I have crossed some immense, unknown mental barrier, and I give myself fully to the moment; to the here and now. For this brief period of time, it is exhilarating just to be; to simply exist without past humiliation and future anxieties tugging my brain in polar directions. In this moment, I am simply a person – not 'the miserable guy' – and I realise just how long it has been since I have considered myself in this way.

"Oh, look! We're here!"

She's right. Turning to the window, I find the muddy fields have been replaced by the towering blocks which make up the Birmingham skyline, just visible beneath the thick, grey clouds. The train is slowing; we are pulling into the station. And with a start, I realise something completely unexpected: I do not want this conversation to end.

While my brain struggles to process this surprising piece of information, the landscape disappears as the train pulls into the underground platform, finally coming to a stop. I am vaguely aware of passengers around me retrieving luggage from the overhead compartments and shrugging on coats, ready to leave – but I remain seated, wondering if I can muster the courage to say something which might enable the conversation to be prolonged...

Yeah, right.

A confident, self-assured guy would know exactly what to say; but I'm not him.

Instead, I simply watch in silence as she busies herself with fastening her navy coat, swinging her handbag onto her shoulder as she rises to leave.

"It was really nice talking to you!" she smiles. "I hope you have a great day with your dad."

And then, just like that, she's gone – swept up into the wave of people slowly shuffling up the aisle towards the train doors, before I have chance to utter a goodbye of my own.

In the moments that follow, the self-loathing begins.

Coward, chants the familiar, destructive voice in my head. Pathetic, useless coward. Why would you even believe she'd want to spend any more time with someone like you? Let's be honest, she was only talking to you out of pity in the first place.

I know it's not real – my therapist has told me enough times that it's just the anxiety talking, manifesting itself as a harsh inner critic, repeating all my worst fears on a loop. But that doesn't help, in situations like this. When my stomach knots and my chest tightens, all ability to reason escapes me, as I find myself succumbing, yet again, to my inner demons.

Boring, pathetic loser...

A flash of white on the floor suddenly catches my attention, breaking me out of my painful internal monologue. Leaning down, my hand comes into contact with a soft, snowy ball of fluff.

Her scarf.

I am on my feet before I can overthink. Darting down the now empty aisle, I emerge out onto the platform into the swarm of people headed for the escalators. Wishing I was taller, I stand on tiptoe, attempting to peer over the sea of heads in search of those impossibly shiny golden locks. Eventually I catch sight of her standing about halfway up, phone in hand as she stares, engrossed, at something on the screen. She'll never see me down here; I need to get up to her.

Battling my way through the crowd – all the while fighting the gnawing sense of claustrophobia threatening to overcome me – I catch up with her just after the ticket barriers. After the briefest moment's hesitation, I take a deep breath and close the distance between us, tapping her lightly on the shoulder.

She turns, face lighting up as she spots me clutching her scarf.

"Thank you!" she tells me, accepting it from me with a shake of her head which causes her curls to bounce. "Honestly, I'm so forgetful – would you believe that would have been the third scarf I've lost this year?"

Once again, I find myself unsure how to respond.

The things she says – the easy, carefree way she speaks of her flaws – goes against everything my perfectionist nature has drilled into my conscience. To hear her speak so openly about her forgetfulness is something so insignificant, yet so alien to me, that I can't help but notice. Imagine having the confidence to allow yourself to be anything less than perfect! Instantly, I feel a fervent admiration for this woman.

"Well, it turns out my friend's train is delayed, so I now have an hour to kill before she arrives," she informs me. "Think I might head over to the Christmas market; it's supposed to be worth a visit."

A brief glance at my watch tells me I am not due to meet my father for another forty-five minutes. Acting instinctively – a rare occurrence for me – I force the anxiety to the back of my mind as I reply:

"I actually have some spare time, too. Mind if I join you?"

That half a beat before she replies is the most excruciatingly long moment. During the brief silence that hangs between us, my stomach clenches tight as I prepare to flee the scene, expecting rejection – only for her to take me completely by surprise.

"Of course not!" she replies brightly. "Do you know the way?"

I nod silently, and we both make our way out of the train station into the cold. I turn my collar up as she winds the returned scarf around her neck in an attempt to keep out the brisk wind.

"I'm Louise, by the way," she says as we walk, her voice now slightly muffled.

"I'm Mark," I reply, realising how peculiar it seems that we are only just now sharing our names.

We amble slowly up the packed high street until we round the corner and, suddenly, in a flurry of activity and blaring of Christmas carols, the mass of log cabins that make up the market are upon us.

Beside me, Louise's eyes light up with an almost childlike excitement.

"Oh, it's so lovely!" she gushes.

I allow myself to pause for a moment alongside her, taking in the scene.

Before me I see a wave of people, winding along the street as far as the eye can see. They creep along slowly, without purpose – the worst kind of crowd to find myself trapped in.

Usually, this is the extent of my observations of the world around me. I see the people simply as a single mass; their faces blurring into obscurity as I attempt to block them out and retreat inside my own head.

Now, though, I find myself observing my surroundings in a different light. With a brief glance at Louise, who flashes me another of her lovely smiles, I turn back to the crowd before me and find myself truly seeing for the first time in a very long while.

Directly before me are an elderly couple, shuffling slowly in the direction of a stall with a display of adorable wicker garden ornaments. Each clutch firmly onto the other's arm for support, as they share a joy-filled glance, as childlike and merry as if this were their first date.

A small boy suddenly hurtles past, bundled from head to toe against the winter chill. His parents follow, laden down with an armful of bags, catching up with him as he stops and points excitedly up with a mitten-clad hand at the lavishly-decorated gingerbread men hanging from a nearby stall. I watch his determined attempt to wheedle a treat out of them, feeling a smile spread itself across my face a moment later as he busies himself with removing his gingerbread man from its cellophane wrapper, flushed cheeks beaming widely.

Suddenly a flash of black catches my eyes. It's a young girl, maybe sixteen years old, in a thin, dark hooded jacket. Her breath mists in front of her as she struggles through the crowd, head bowed and hands stuffed in her pockets – she must be freezing.

As she passes directly in front of me, I notice the icy, vacant look in her eyes, and realise she must be cold on the inside too. I know it, because it is the face I see staring back at me in the mirror each morning.

This is how I must look to people, I realise. And, watching the girl's hunched shoulders disappearing into the crowd, I feel a sudden, overwhelming wave of sadness for the hard, empty shells this vile disease reduces us to. How many of us are there? I wonder. There must be an entire army of silent, hopeless ghosts, all of us suffering alone and in silence.

I feel Louise eyeing me intently, and turn my attention back to her. Her expression is unreadable, and I wonder anxiously if she has begun to realise that I'm not normal.

"Shall we have a look at the stalls?" she suggests gently.

I swallow, mind far away from Louise's question as I agonise over an internal struggle.

When Louise struck up the conversation on the train, she had no idea I was depressed. She spoke to me as if I was just another person; something I'd found incredibly refreshing. It helped me to pretend for a moment that my mental illness did not exist – a fantasy I had obsessed over these past few years.

But why?

Shame. It was as simple as that. Shame, and inadequacy – a feeling that admitting to my struggles would somehow make me less of a person. Depression and anxiety sounded like dirty words – in my mind they mingled with words such as deranged and unstable, neither of which adjectives I wanted to be associated with.

I'd always felt, perhaps stupidly, as if I was the only one experiencing these feelings. Although I obviously knew there were others suffering with anxiety and depression, I'd never thought of them as, well, like me. They were out there somewhere, sure – but for some reason I never imagined I'd come across any of them.

Seeing that girl in the street just now has changed something for me. Having caught a glimmer of myself in her hopeless expression, I find myself overwhelmed with a wish that I'd had the courage to tell her that it would be okay; that she wasn't alone. It's so blindingly clear to me now, I wonder why it never occurred to me sooner. We are all suffering in the same way – remaining silent, too scared to speak out for fear of being judged. But, without someone speaking out, how will we ever begin to realise that we are in fact not alone?

On this seemingly insignificant November day, I find myself suddenly wanting to do what I have never done before. I want to come out of hiding; finally, I want to speak out.

"Louise," I tell her, before I can change my mind. "There's something you should know about me. I suffer from depression and anxiety, and usually there is nothing worse than spending time in a crowded city centre. But when you sat next to me on the train this morning, you did something amazing for me – you just talked to me, like any other person, allowing me to feel normal for the first time in ages."

Once the words were out of my mouth, I found I didn't care what her response was. I was riding on a wave of exhilaration, freed after keeping everything bottled up for so long. If I'd known it would feel this incredible to speak it out loud, I would have told somebody about it ages ago.

"That must be so hard," Louise replies now. "My younger sister suffers from panic attacks, and I know she finds Christmas shopping particularly difficult."

I blink, surprised. This just proves it, really – how ignorant I've been. Here is Louise, happy and carefree and 'normal'; someone I'd felt certain would view me differently the moment she found out I was depressed. Not only did she not bat an eyelid, however, but she also has someone very close to her suffering with a mental illness.

How many of us are there? I wonder again.

"I've still got half an hour before I'm due to meet my friend," says Louise. "We didn't really get long to talk on the train – how about we go for a coffee and get to know each other a little better?"

Despite the chill still attacking my extremities, I feel a warmth spreading itself through my insides.

"I'd like that," I reply with a smile.

We begin to wander up the street, my heart lighter than it has been for many years. Walking alongside Louise right now, I have no idea what I am heading towards, or where this might lead – yet, surprisingly, I find I am okay with that. Whatever happens, I will always remember this as the moment I finally set my mental illness free, voicing it aloud for the very first time.

And Louise – I will always remember her as the person who made me realise that I too could have a little moment of 'Merry' this Christmas.