There are a million reasons why people who suffer emotionally don't seek help. People don't seek help or treatment for fear that they can't afford it, their pride will be damaged, they'll be called an attention seeker, etc. Among these reasons, the main reason why I didn't seek immediate help when I was suffering mentally was that I didn't want to be seen as weak.

Growing up, my mother was the only reliable woman figure I had to look to. She portrayed strength in ways I didn't know was possible. In no way am I saying that me not seeking help before it was almost too late was anyone's fault — it wasn't. However, it is because I had such a strong role model growing up that I felt I was capable of handling my emotional distress alone. If my mom could handle a separation, being a single mother, working two full-time jobs, and raising two toddlers then I could handle the occasional feeling of sadness that I felt.

My mother and I are alike in so many ways. If she could handle all of the bullshit life threw at her, then why couldn't I? I knew that if I couldn't handle a portion of what she had to deal with then my life was basically over. If I am not capable of balancing the struggles in my life and finding time to stay sane, then what was the point of even trying? If I couldn't handle college, a job, and 18 credits my second semester, then I couldn't handle anything else in the "real world." These were thoughts that consumed me every day.

It wasn't until these thoughts and my occasional spurts of sadness turned into something so big I couldn't even leave my bed, that I decided to seek help. In September of my freshman year of college, I felt myself "letting go" or "slipping away" and that is initially when I decided to see a counselor on my campus. When I called to make my first appointment with a counselor I was overwhelmed with a feeling I would later become all too familiar with: anxiety.

I remember feeling as though I would puke as I waited for someone to answer the phone. My palms were so sweaty that I nearly dropped my phone while waiting for the receptionist to check for the soonest opening. During my first appointment, I didn't say much. I tried to talk but the words wouldn't come out, all that came at first was tears. For two sessions, I cried. I didn't cry because I was deemed weak. I cried because I had been holding on to so much emotion and had been sweeping how I truly felt under the rug for years.

I cried because dammit I deserved to.

With each therapy session following my first, I felt as though I could openly talk about more things without getting tearful or visibly upset. I was able to gain mental strength this way slowly. Just because I went to therapy weekly for two semesters straight (and now on my third) doesn't mean that I'm magically cured and my emotional distress won't ever happen again.

I felt as though I was so "broken" beyond repair mentally that it would take a lifetime to "fix me." The truth is, you can't fix something that's not broken. That goes for people, too. Although I felt as though I was broken and shattered, I wasn't. I wasn't ever truly broken, I was just in a hole. A hole that I would never have been able to get out of if it weren't for the help of a psychiatrist, psychologist, and my primary care doctor.

You see, I didn't seek the help I didn't know I needed because I was weak. I got the help I needed because I am strong. I am strong enough to recognize when I am becoming distressed and when I need extra help pulling myself up. I am strong enough to know that my life is worth more than the tears I cried. I am strong enough to see that if I didn't get the help I wouldn't be here at all.

I sought help because I am strong and my mom raised a strong daughter. Strong people ask for help when they need it; they don't hide behind a plastered on smile.

The strongest people know how to be vulnerable and know that sometimes it is this vulnerability that helps us get the help we may not know we need.

I'm sorry, society, but I'm not weak. You are.