I want to make it very clear that I didn't publish this for attention or for sympathy. My only selfish motive behind this is that maybe I'll be a little more sympathetic to me once I unshackle myself from my own head. And considering everything that's gone on this weekend in our community, it's crucial that we begin to understand what our "sad" friends are actually going through on a daily basis.

I have been battling some very dark demons for a very long time. Every once in a while, they rear their ugly heads and begin sucking the life out of every single thing I hold dear: athletics, academics, friendships, romantic relationships, and sometimes, even the way I feel about the sanctity of my own life.

Thus, I've tried to commit suicide twice. And on September 30, 2020, I attempted to tally another notch in my belt (so to speak).

Until about three weeks ago, I thought this was pretty normal-- at least having these types of thought was normal. I fantasize about the most efficient and painless ways to end my life at least once a day. There isn't enough sex, drugs, and roc' n' roll that could ever make me whole again and believe me I've tried it all. I thought everyone occasionally saw dying as a reprieve from the seemingly bottomless pain they experience every second of every day. Some of you know exactly what I'm talking about. Some of you are probably frightened. But I can promise you that there is no torture method on Earth that trumps what I'm about to say.

For the past month, I have woken up every single morning greeted by a crashing wave of anxiety. It swells near my heart and then it methodically seeps into every other bone in my body like sea foam dissipates into the shore. It robs me of my breath and simultaneously quickens it. I am hyperaware that I am alive and breathing. Then my depression tells me to be disappointed that I am. This little circus has been going on since I was 15 years old. On/off, on/off, on/off, never knowing when I'll go back to normal, happy Donnett. I've tried therapy, prescription meds, meditation, self-medication, destructive behavior, you name it. I wake up every morning absolutely defeated because I was not mercifully granted a cessation of brain synapses and heart beats in my sleep. I wake up every morning knowing that I will engage in a battle between me, myself, and I: my brain is trying to convince me that dying is the only cure for what I'm feeling. Death is what a person like me deserves.

Life becomes very difficult when others create a dichotomy between who you really are, and what they want and believe you to be. I wasn't born being this disgusted with myself. (I mean I think I'm fantastic-- truly one of a kind.) I was conditioned to be. It's very hard to assure yourself that you are a human being worthy of life and happiness when you get told by your boyfriend that you just want to be "a stripper who just rips lines off a bar all night, shaking her ass in guys' faces." It's hard to be kind to yourself when someone accuses you of causing their excessive drinking. Or when that same person tells you they can't be with you anymore because it's like living a lie: he can't be a successful adult when he's with someone "who loses their keys and debit card so much." How about when a trusted friend uses deeply personal information against you and tells you, "if I had a daughter like you, I'd leave my family too?" Then, adding insult to injury, posts online that you're a hooker who has sex with married men for vacations and frequently sleeps with men in relationships. Or how about all the girls that go around making your name synonymous with "slut" and "whore?" I might as well put it on my tombstone.

Now let's contrast what people tell me versus what I know about myself to be true (and maybe then you'll understand why I committed myself.) I went to Pre-K when I was two-and-a-half years old because I was that bright. In middle school, I was bored of all the sports I'd grown up playing so I randomly picked up volleyball in 8th grade. I ended up playing Division I, earned a scholarship, and was selected to be a captain my junior and senior season. My senior year we had the most successful season in program history. Oh, and during all of that, I had a 4.0 for six consecutive semesters, graduating a semester early. Taking a year off to apply for law school, I landed an incredible job working for Council Member Feroleto at City Hall. Twenty-one years old with a full-time job, salaried with benefits. Then I got into law school and received a big fat scholarship there too.

But none of that matters. None of that matters because I've been convinced by so many inferior people that it doesn't. And no matter how hard I try to tell and show people otherwise, they all end up drinking the Kool-Aid because it is so much easier to put out a fire than it is to build one.

I'm used to it, so it usually doesn't impact me besides a few bad days here and there. Nothing an opiate can't fix. But now I have the added stress and misery of law school. And I just can't get out of my bed. I have to shut off my camera at least once a day during class because I'll randomly burst out crying. I can barely lift up my textbooks anymore and I certainly don't have the mental capacity to do quality work. A five-page memo took me almost a week to do because all I did was panic and pace and stare at a blank computer screen. Not because it's hard, but because my brain is telling me over and over again that anything I write isn't good enough. Any type of serious mental exertion exhausts me.

So, I cracked. On Wednesday, September 30, 2020, I decided that I either start my car in my garage and shut the door behind me forever, or I admit myself into a psychiatric hospital, which I've never done before. I sat in my car for an hour just absolutely sobbing while agonizing over what to do. I worried that the carbon monoxide would seep into my house and kill my dogs. I knew what I was about to do would cause enough harm; I didn't need to hurt one more living thing.

And I think that's what brought me back down to Earth. I turned off my car, walked back into my house, picked up my phone and called ECMC to go over the protocol. I was absolutely terrified. I've heard horror stories about what goes on there, but it didn't matter. It was time I admitted to myself, and everyone else, how sick I really was.

I asked my mom to come with me so we got in the car around 7pm. I would not return home until the next morning. I didn't say a word. Didn't cry. I put my backpack on, my Yeezy's, a Supreme sweatshirt and prepared to face whatever fresh hell was awaiting me. But I knew in my heart of hearts, nothing could be worse than what I was feeling in my soul at that moment: complete and utter despair.

They have a nurse walk you back to CPEP. He stays with you the entire time until you get through triage: that's where they put you in this holding room that looks like jail. An officer comes in with a metal detector to make sure you don't have anything that could be weaponized. And then three giant security guards took custody of me to bring me upstairs. You're not allowed to take anything in with you beyond the waiting room once you get to the 2nd floor. They took me back immediately. I barely had time to give my mom my backpack and my phone before I was whisked away. Then you go and sit in this examination-like room. They have to keep the door open with the giant security guards standing right outside. They can hear every word you say to the nurses and psychiatrists. They hear every sob, every panicked breath, every declaration of your darkest thoughts. And you have to do it three times: once to the nurse, again to the doctor, and then another time to an NP. They take your shoes, take any article of clothing with a string attached. We had to cut the strings to my pants or I would've had to wear the paper ones. I wasn't allowed to wear my hoodie. I got a pair of blue socks that were much too big but I was just grateful that I didn't have to walk around barefoot (some people were.)

After intake, they post you up in the patient waiting room. It was a slow night there so it was just me and three other patients. It was indisputably the most uncomfortable room I've been in. You had a choice of a plastic rocking chair or a plastic regular chair. No cushions in sight. No pillows. I curled up in one of the rocking chairs in the back of the room. A really kind nurse came out to talk to me and told me what to expect next; she hung out with me for a while until I stopped crying and brought me some pop and a blanket. After she left, I didn't talk to anyone again for the next four hours. I simmered in my thoughts, slowly calming down knowing I couldn't do anything to hurt myself. The security guards put on some awful show that gave me a headache, so I started to cry again because my head and eyes hurt so bad from the stress of the day. I just wanted to talk to somebody who could help me or fall asleep. Being my restless self, I ended up in another corner of the room on two chairs that I turned into a bed. I finally started to drift asleep when the doctor called my name. He brought me to this room with all windows and I just broke down again. When I say that everyone I encountered couldn't have been kinder to me, I truly mean that. He sat and listened and validated everything I was feeling. And for the first time in a while, as I sat in the heart of a psychiatric emergency room, I did not feel crazy.

I have been faced with insurmountable loss this year. My entire life has been flipped upside down not once, but twice. My family, friends, relationship(s), professional life. Nothing has been stable. Nothing has been easy. I don't have one thing in my life that gives me peace anymore, only pain. And he did not tell me I was being dramatic, or that I was being a baby. In fact, he balked a little bit after I said my piece. The jury is still out if I'll be staying in school this semester, my doctors and I don't know if it's necessarily the best move for me if I'm not capable of peak performance. We talked about treatment options next. For those who are wondering, in case they ever find themselves in a similar predicament, if they keep you for the 72-hour observation, you're not really going to receive that much attention. You'll interact a few times a day with your nurse but that's it. So, if you need more intensive therapy, there are better options available (look into the "half-hospitalization" program.) There are usually too many patients, some very, very sick ones, admitted for doctors to give you their undivided attention. For the most part, you'd be sitting alone in your room all day. However, if you are deemed to be a real danger to yourself, then you don't have a choice and they'll observe you for 72-hours regardless of what you want.

We decided that I'd meet with the social worker next to devise a treatment plan coordinated by the hospital. He didn't have any beds available so I had to sleep in the waiting room on the round, plastic chairs and my lone blanket. I was in and out of consciousness when she came over. We talked things over, she helped get me connected with a therapist ,and we went over this thing called a "safety plan." My eyes were almost swollen shut at this point and I was truly exhausted. I begged to go home so I could sleep in my bed, and that was okay with them if I promised I would feel safe there. This ordeal took me into the wee hours of Thursday morning. My mom sat outside the doors and waited for me the whole time.

I got prescribed a new medication to treat severe depression and anxiety. My last prescription didn't make a dent, so let's hope we see different results. I'm torn about school. This has been my dream since I was a little girl, but I'm not physically or mentally able to perform like I need to. I emailed my professors before I went inside the hospital and they all responded with encouragement, kindness, and the utmost compassion. It would break my heart if I ended up having to drop out, but I will only make that decision if it's going to help save my life. There's always next year, right?

It's easy to finish reading all that and wonder why I feel this way, or why anyone could feel this way. I know I had a more privileged upbringing than some of my peers. I know I have a lot to be grateful for and proud of. Yet, I can't enjoy a single second of it. I was in Paris at the beginning of March and barely felt a thing while I was there. Just completely numb at times. That's been the moral of the story for the past year in its entirety, honestly. This disconnect between what I should be feeling and what I'm actually feeling. It has driven me insane, literally. And for all the relationships that became collateral damage, I'm sorry I didn't seek help sooner.

I hope this helps destigmatize hospitalization for mental illness. I hope this helps ambitious people with a chemical imbalance that keeps them from capitalizing on their potential. I hope this makes people feel heard and understood. I hope this speaks to people on a molecular level, so much so that you feel like I ripped these words right out of your soul. I hope this helps people in need of serious help: take that next step and go see somebody in whatever capacity you're comfortable with. Nothing feels more stabilizing than a concrete treatment plan.

I appreciate the people in my life who love me and do so unconditionally. I really do have some incredible friends and family members that make me feel like I have the whole world by the balls on my good days. If you've read this far, my only ask of you is that you make your friends feel comfortable having these candid and brutal conversations with you. You don't have to say a word. Just be okay with them telling you their darkest thoughts or pretend that you are. Let them speak and be heard, and even if you can't possibly understand their pain, make them feel like it matters. You could save someone's life.

Despite what my own mind begs and pleads for me to do, I have survived. Is this what I would necessarily call "living?" No, but sometimes all we can do is precisely that. And when you are your own worst enemy, your most formidable foe, surviving another day is a pretty laudable feat.