ADD. ADHD. Anorexia. Anxiety. Bipolar Disorder. OCD. Personality Disorders. Depression.

According to the World Health Organization (WHO), one in four people in the world are affected by some kind of mental disorder.

Director-General of WHO, Dr. Gro Harlem Brundtland says, “Mental illness is not a personal failure. In fact, if there is a failure, it is to be found in the way we have responded to people with mental and brain disorders.”

So… If this is the case, if there is no personal failure in mental illness, why do people feel ashamed to admit they are struggling? Why do my classmates shake constantly, and struggle to catch a breath in everyday situations? Why do my friends cry themselves to sleep every night, and struggle with thoughts of ending their own lives? Why is this a topic that is hidden as if it should be a secret? These questions run through my mind constantly, and yet I can’t seem to find an answer. Here’s why this affects me so personally.

My freshman year of high school, I was on cloud nine. I took difficult situations well; I handled things healthily. The main reason behind this was an incredible support system I knew I had by my side. My best friend at the time was several years older than me. Her reassurance that my trivial issues wouldn't matter soon, and her willingness to listen and give advice on small issues was calming. Her boyfriend at the time was also helpful in this process. I was having issues at school with making friends, and being myself. I was also having issues outside of school, but I knew at the end of each long day, I could get in the car with my friends, and they could easily put my mind at rest.

Then, in one single moment, my world crumbled.

I woke up to a phone call on a Saturday morning that altered my life in a way I would’ve never imagined. It was the worst ten minute conversation of my life as I heard my best friend sobbing on the other end of the phone. I heard the words being shoved out of her mouth and all the sudden, I could hear my heartbeat slow and feel it sink into my stomach, I felt my knees cave, and I fell to the floor. “He’s dead, he’s gone. He killed himself.”

I was unable to process the words that continued to echo in my head. He killed himself. He’s dead. He killed himself. He. Killed. Himself. How? Why? What do you mean? I don't believe you. You’re lying. Snap out of it. He’s fine. As I held my best friend who couldn't stop crying, I realized it wasn’t a joke; there was nothing simple about this; he was dead and there was nothing anyone could do to change it.

Over the next weeks, my brain scrambled to put together every conversation, every look, every hint. There were very few things I could think of that would've given me a reason as to why. His smile was radiating, his personality vibrant, his comfort resounding and his presence irreplaceable.

Mental illness. There was some part of him that couldn't see a future. He wasn't able to find any reason in the entire world to keep living. The pains of this world had outweighed the bliss. All it took was one minute for him to not be able to see the future. It took one minute. Sixty seconds. For him to feel so utterly hopeless to remove himself from this world in hope of being pain-free. Over the past four and a half years, I have grieved. The denial lasted for a long time; the anger was scattered in-between, and everywhere around me. I was angry at the world, at myself, at everyone who came near me. The bargaining was constant. I used to scream and cry begging to have him back; I would do anything. Then…Depression; it hit. It hit hard. All the sudden, I was unable to function. I was sad, I was mad, I was confused. It seemed I was stumbling down a path and every step I took, one was one step closer to rock bottom.

Through the midst of all of it, I researched a lot. I tried to understand all kinds of mental illnesses, because then, maybe one of them would give me answers as to why he was feeling the way he did. Eventually, I realized, each illness is personal; it can be labeled, but the way it affects a person can only be felt by that person; I would never know how he felt. Why he was in that place or what got him there. All I could admit at that moment was that I was fearful I had slipped too far into a mental illness I wouldn't be able to get out of.

Four and a half years later, acceptance, the fifth stage of grief, has yet to be achieved, but I’d like to think I have learned a lot. I've learned a lot about mental illness; the way it consumes lives, the way people avoid it, what to do and what not to do, how to approach it and when, what it can take from a person. That was part of my story, next, I want to share what it taught me.