I think that I should start off with a trigger warning for this. If you're uncomfortable with the mention of things like depression, suicide, anxiety, etc., this article may not be for you.

That being said, here we go:

Mental health can be a bit of a taboo topic, but should it be? Should we not be able to talk about mental illnesses the same way we talk other illness? This is why it is important to discuss how we talk about mental health and mental illness. To always talk behind closed doors and in hushed tones makes it seem like there is something to be ashamed of and something to be hidden. I, personally, object to this thought.

In the spirit of this, I feel it is important to tell you that I will reference my own struggles with mental illness, but I can only relate to what I, personally, have gone through. This may not be the same for everyone, so do not take this as the be-all-end-all, because it's not. I'm one person—one experience.

While I'm sure if I went back farther, I would find more signs of something being wrong, I didn't really begin my struggle with mental illness until my sophomore year of high school. I was very depressed, and I didn't even know. This was mostly because I was never educated on what the signs of depression were and how to notice them in yourself. The public school system had showed me Lifetime movies of pretty young girls being made fun of so badly that it drove them to drastic measures, whether that be trying to take their own life or otherwise. But I didn't look like these girls, and no one was really making fun of me.

It wasn't like that. I was a sophomore in high school. The only thing I really felt was completely and utterly alone. A lot of people that I had gotten close to graduated the year before, so there was a lot of empty space in my life that I didn't know how to fill. I would avoid people at my after-school activities. I would sleep behind the stage before drama club rehearsal just because that was the only thing that made me feel better. I would escape to the bathroom to cry and then return as if nothing had ever happened. And when that didn't work, I resorted to hurting myself. It didn't matter how.

The reason I am telling you about this is because it's important to know how it was dealt with at the school. After I had officially stopped hurting myself, someone reported me to my high school guidance counselor, and I was called into her office. I was completely blindsided and embarrassed. They asked me right out: "Are you cutting yourself?" I swear to you, my heart skipped a beat. I thought I was going to throw up. The only way I knew how to deal with this was to deny it. So, I lied. But lying was pretty hard when the evidence was right there in front of them, but I made up some excuse and went on with my day. I had to leave class to go cry in the bathroom. I spent at least 40 minutes in there, because I could not get it together. I got through the day as fast as I could and got on the bus home.

What I didn't know is that the nightmare of that day was far from over. My guidance counselor had called my mother without advising me that she was going to do so. I got home, and I was faced with the same question. My mom's immediate reaction was to put me in therapy. I'm not a big fan of talk therapy, it never helped me. This may be due to my anxiety, but talking to a stranger about my problems always made me uncomfortable and extremely self-conscious. The thing was, I had no choice in any of this. Someone anonymously reported me to the guidance counselor, the guidance counselor called my mom and my mom threw me to the therapist. I went to therapy, a very kind lady, and we talked for a little bit. At the end, we both agreed that this may not be the right course of action for me, but it was an option. I liked that, hearing about an option.

So, why should we be talking about mental health? Because 16-year-old me could have really benefited from it. Me at 16 years old could have known more about what was going on. She should have known why it brought tears to her eyes to even think about getting out of bed in the morning or why she wanted to fade away into nonexistence. She deserved to know that she wasn't "crazy," as certain people would tell her. That's why it is a necessity to talk about these things.

But it's how we talk about it, too, that matters.

Going forward, we all need to remember that we are all different. While there may be umbrellas of illnesses like depression or anxiety, it's important to remember that each person is probably going to go through it differently. We can't rely on the pretty girls in the Lifetime movies to stand for all of us.

People with mental health issues are not crazy.

We are strong.

So, start educating students. Stop demonizing mental illness in the media. I'm looking at you, politicians who try to change the subject of gun violence to a discussion about mental health. Should we be discussing mental health? Hell yes. But, not like this. Just because someone has a mental illness does not mean they are going to walk into a building and pull out a gun. Remember that. It's important. Stop romanticizing depression and suicide and just about everything else. I've talked about the Lifetime girls already, but we need to be careful about what we put out there. Depression isn't just a pretty girl who's kind of sad sometimes and stays home crying into a pint of ice cream. If you're going to write about depression, write about depression. Don't make it seem more glamorous or prettier than it is. And suicide isn't romantic. It's tragic and devastating.

We have to be doing more. We have to do it for those girls who may be going through what I went through—what I am still dealing with—because it doesn't just disappear. It's a lifelong struggle.

Depression reportedly affects one in 10 Americans at one point or another. One in 10 college students contemplate suicide. One in four people experience mental health problems.

So, don't be afraid to share your stories. Don't be ashamed because that's what society is telling you that you should be. Don't let them put you in a box.