"You're depressed."

"You're ADHD."

“You’re ADD.”

“You have an anxiety disorder.”

My childhood was a happy one. I have a perfect mother and a perfect father, whose never-ending, unconditional love inspires everyone they meet. I have five sisters and two brothers, all whom I love dearly, and for the most part, I can’t find an unhappy memory. This all started to change in the fourth grade.

When you’re growing up, you assume adults know everything. More than that, you assume doctors know everything. Well, I’m here to tell you this simply isn’t true. When I was in the fourth grade I started having a lot of anxiety. I didn’t want to go to school because I had panic attacks in class. My Mom took me to my first therapist. I didn’t really like talking to the lady, in fact, she wasn’t very easy to talk to. Shouldn’t a therapist be the easiest person to talk to? Well, I started having anxiety about talking about my anxiety and I refused to keep going.

For several years after that, I was able to keep my anxiety under control. In high school, I started to get bad again. I started going to the psychiatrist, and he told me all sorts of things. I was depressed, ADHD, ADD, and had an anxiety disorder all at the same time. Countless appointments, countless medications, no results. I consistently went off of my medication because it didn’t help. I didn’t understand why this was happening to me. Why no matter how hard I tried to get well, my brain continued to be sick.

I started college and for the first two years, I hid my pain. I would cry myself to sleep, rip myself out of bed in the morning, and then repeat every day. I was watching my life go by. No one knew I was struggling, I wore a smile and put on a show that Broadway would be proud of.

In November of my junior year of college, I turned 21. I was so excited that I was legal, I went home for the weekend had a huge 21st birthday bash. Little did I know I wouldn’t be returning to school that year.

I hit my breaking point. I lost my drive, my strength, and I was lost. With every breath I took, I felt like I was suffocating. So totally uninterested in my life that I lost all will. It was because of this that I had to make the decision to medically withdraw from school. The school that I loved, leaving the people I loved behind, to find myself again.

I found a doctor that I loved and I finally had a diagnosis that fit. I’m bipolar. This choice saved my life. I got on medicine that allowed me to breathe again. I found new friendships and new relationships that played a huge role in my healing.

I ended up taking a full year off. I returned to school this past fall. I had barely spoken to anyone from school that entire year. When I came back, I expected to be an outcast and to have to make new friends.

But to my surprise, everyone held their arms open for me. I was asked countless questions about why I left, what happened, and was it worth it. My only response? It saved my life.

Mental illness is, for some reason that I don’t understand, a taboo subject. It doesn’t have to be. My mental illness is a part of me, and it makes me who I am. The best advice I could ever give is this: know that you’re not alone. No matter how lonely, scared, or terrible you feel, you are not alone. Take time for yourself. Take a year off from school. Find help. Love yourself. Love every single part of you.