I’ve started this piece too many times, with too many fears that keep me from writing. I keep rephrasing, deleting words and second-guessing, but then I decide that my mental health is important and not something I should ever be ashamed of.

Earlier this year, I was diagnosed with clinical anxiety and depression. I was mortified when my doctor said my screening results were the highest she had ever seen on an initial visit. I found myself saying “I’m not depressed, I just have a lot on my plate right now,” but when the appointment was over and I drove home, I found myself alone in my head with new words. Words that scared me more than I was capable of understanding. For those of you reading who know the weight of mental illness, you know just how frightening being alone with your thoughts can be.

I bought into the stigma of mental illness on day one of my diagnosis. I didn’t think of myself as having anxiety or depression and therefore distanced myself from the words and refused to believe that anything was wrong.

This was my worst decision to date. I felt isolated from my friends and family, denied my diagnosis and clung to my perfectly crafted facade that was crumbling before my eyes. I should have known that wasn’t a way to live.

It took a swift and seemingly world shattering rejection that came in the form of a professor telling me to withdraw from her class or I would fail. Now, I can tell you, as a chronic over-achiever and excellent student, that I thought I would never hear those words. To a person without anxiety and depression, there would have been rational thoughts about possible solutions and different ways of looking at failure, but I went nuclear and that facade I mentioned earlier, well, it vanished in mere minutes.

I found myself trying to pick up the parts of myself I thought I needed most but was left with the remnants of the person I used to be. A woman living a rapid paced life chalked full of meetings stacked on top of work, class and allotted personal time in the evening before hours of study. To be honest, I don’t know how I lived like that for so long.

The shock of my perceived failure left me feeling numb to my surroundings and estranged from my loved ones. I had no coping mechanism strong enough to combat the feelings of hopelessness and loneliness. My body felt 50 pounds heavier to carry around and my mind fell into the darkest places I hope it never returns to. Those few weeks were the scariest of my life.

My mind seemed to have been hijacked and my body felt like it wasn’t mine to control. Getting out of bed seemed a Herculean task in those weeks. I remember coming back from work one day and I collapsed upon entering my dorm room. Simple tasks became exhausting and putting on a pretty smile felt toxic and insincere. I was running on empty and had nothing else to give. I distanced myself from everyone around me and I felt punished for it.

It took months for me to realize that I got to be selfish sometimes. Now, I realize how terrible that sounds, but truly, every single person gets to be protective of the things they need. At that point, I needed room to breathe and time to accept the realities of my life I couldn’t control and that meant understanding and even embracing my diagnosis.

I took the time to realize what I needed from myself. I needed time in my day to appreciate how far I’ve come, time to breathe and accept the things I have control of and to set realistic goals so that the world doesn’t threaten to bury me in its vastness.