When you’re just starting high school the last thing that should pass through your mind is “I want to die.” That’s how I felt though. I had no motivation to work hard in my classes or plan into the future because I didn’t know how long I was really going to be here. I always kept suicide in my back pocket for a day that I really wouldn’t be able to continue. I didn’t reach out to others because I assumed that’s how everyone felt. I didn’t see a point of bothering others with things they already knew and must be going through as well.
When my Mom noticed my grades were slipping and my only interest was sleeping, she took me to my first therapist. What I remember is that this woman, who I was supposed to confide in and feel better with, looked like my Spanish teacher and I did not want to be there at all. Leaving that day with a piece of paper in hand I learned that I had depression. The car ride home included my Mom reading over the piece of paper that had multiple choice and fill in the blank answers.
It showed I thought of myself as a failure. It showed I felt worthless. It showed I wanted to die, and she cried.
I was stubborn when it came to treatment. I went to a counselor for a year, for my mother’s sake, and then refused anything more. I wasn’t ready to help myself. I kept everything inside, hoping to move on from this secret I felt needed to disappear. I wore a mask with the biggest smile I could muster. When I went away to college though, things only got worse. I no longer had a support system so physically close to me. My sister was at a different university, my friends were two hours away, and my parents… well, no one wants to tell their parents that the life they gave you isn’t something you wanted.
I would sleep more often than not and disappear in to long binges of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," always hoping I would become strong like her by watching religiously. I reached my lowest point when my sister saw cuts on my arms and cried, asking why. I didn’t know how to answer her. Thank you to the few close friends I made in college marching band and still had at home, I reached out for help. It still took me a couple tries to find a therapist I liked and get into a habit of self-care, but I was starting.
Now, at 22, I am on medication, have a regular therapist, and find that most days are not too bad. It’s a constant game of adjustments and self-evaluations on medication to see what is really working for me and what isn’t. I’ve lost friends but also found some of the most amazing people in the world who will always be there for me.
At this point, I wonder why I had waited so long to get help.
That day I found out about my mental health, about seven years ago now, is a day that I thank for happening. When you get that piece of paper, that confirmation that you are sick and that wanting to die is something that you shouldn’t be feeling, it’s scary. The relief of knowing you can get better though, that’s indescribable. I keep in mind, when I put pressure on and tear myself down, that I am sick and always getting better.
On the bad days, even small victories are proof of progress. There are always good days that make all the medications and doctors’ appointments worth it. There have been recent moments where I have even thought, “Wow. I don’t know the last time I was actually happy, let alone this happy”. If you think you may be suffering from depression or any other mental health problems, please don’t be afraid to reach out.
I know it’s scary, but in the end, you’ll thank yourself.
