Spring break of 2014 I went to Manhattan with my mom. We saw the Avett Brothers, The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon and a Broadway performance starring Bryan Cranston right after "Breaking Bad" arrived at a finale. We were in the presence of every sight a typical tourist should be in the presence of. The 9/11 Memorial. Grand Central Station. The foreign street vendor. But more importantly, it was the time I spent with my mom that meant the most to me. As a side-effect of college and various employments, it's virtually impossible to do so anymore.

But none of this matters. None of you care about my vacation to New York or how it started off with taking an $80 limo ride we thought was a taxi. Or how I ordered a large caramel macchiato but actually received an embarrassingly miniscule shot of espresso served in a similarly miniscule coffee cup meant for sewer rats which, by the way, cost me $2.47. Or my first experience with lobster bisque. Here's a tip: don't eat it.

No, it's what I said to her prior to takeoff on my first airplane. The words that will stick with me forever.

"I think I'm bipolar."

I thought this because I had a lot of mood swings, many of them being completely opposite. One moment I would be fine. The next, I would lash out for no apparent reason. For example, I would yell at my dad because he asked me what I wanted for dinner. Later, I would feel terrible about it, but never apologize. Rather, I would strike up a different conversation with him, such as what we would be having for tomorrow's dinner.

Granted, I didn't do much research on the disorder before arriving at such a bold conclusion. Still to this day, my knowledge on the subject is minute, like that $2.47 espresso. I'm not bitter about it, I swear. But, like I was saying, I genuinely thought I was suffering from bipolar disorder.

I later realized that I was not, in fact, bipolar.

As a college freshman, I was a Mass Communication major because that's what you naturally study when you don't know what you want in life. My sincere apologies to those with Communication degrees. I was unhappy with my decision. So, I started doing what I thought I was meant to do. I started writing.

I wrote 200-plus pages of a humorous, Dave Barry-esque book entitled, "When I Don't Know the Speed Limit (I Go 40)." It kept me going though I soon realized that it was a disastrous excuse for a piece of writing; however, my sanity was maintained as a result. So, even though the book was an artistic failure, it was well worth my while.

No failure is a bad thing (unless it is).

Fast-forward two years to my first visit to the doctor for something other than a wellness check. I believed I had an anxiety disorder. I may be considered a hypochondriac if it weren't for my first panic attack.

Rewind three months.

At the time, I was employed at Seneca County Job & Family Services in the Child Support section, reviewing cold cases for destruction. It sounds much more interesting than it actually was. Regardless, one morning, I felt a strange tingle in my hands. Like that feeling of needles when you sleep on your side wrong. The strange tingle turned into an uncomfortable sensation that I had never quite felt before. Multiply the needles by a thousand.

Then my breathing started to suffer. My vision of the computer screen a foot away from my eyes began to blur. I didn't know what was happening. I was frightened. I thought I was dying.

I got up from my chair, light-headed and tense, and walked to the bathroom with my legs weakening with every step. Though my destination was just 100 feet away, I thought it would take me hours to make the trek.

I barged into a stall and put the seat cover down. I said to myself, "I'm going to be here for a while." And I was. Luckily, no one came in.

My breathing became almost uncontrollable. My instincts were to place my head in my hands until it passed. After a minute, it still didn't. So I ripped three feet of toilet paper off the roll and covered my nose and mouth, though my mouth was doing all the work. This calmed me and slowed my breaths little by little. Finally, the attack had passed. I checked my phone for the time and what felt like hours had passed was actually only a couple of minutes.

Scared, I walked back to my cubicle. I asked for the rest of the day off.

"Doing a little late Christmas shopping, are ya?" my supervisor asked.

I agreed to avoid explaining the situation. I got in my car and repeatedly listened to the Counting Crows sing "Colorblind." I cried the entire way home.

Fast-forward three months to my doctor's visit.

I explained my symptoms. The panic attack. My irritability, even with loved ones. My anxiousness. He prescribed with an SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor), an anti-depressant called "Lexapro." It helps ease the effects of anxiety, depression, among other things. What was I going to do? Say no?

My mom, being a registered nurse-turned-hospital marketer, was upset because of the anti-depressant label. I told her that everything would be fine. This drug was prescribed by my doctor. Not some guy on a street corner.

Up until about two months ago, I was steadily taking the pill. 20mg. Once a day. At first, it made me weak. Driving was difficult. I couldn't drink, which was definitely a problem. But I got used to its effects.

Then I just forgot about them.

Maybe once or twice a week I would remember. Their half-lives are extremely short, so the dosage I was taking at such an inconsistent rate was actually doing short of nothing for me. But my anxiety had almost dissipated.

I went back to my doctor for a follow-up appointment and explained to him that my symptoms had faded and that the pill was now deemed worthless to me.

"Okay, just stop it all together," he told me.

What he knew, and what I had researched, is that you're supposed to gradually stop using an SSRI. Take half a pill instead of the whole, then a quarter, then nothing. But he told me just to cease all the medication. So I did. Which I was essentially doing for the past two months.

But, there was, naturally, a catch.

Have you heard of "brain zaps?" It's formally called "Lhermitte's sign" in the medical field. Patients usually experience this if they have multiple sclerosis or other nervous system conditions. You can also experience the phenomenon when coming off some medications, such as SSRIs. And I have.

An electrical wave travels down your spine from your brain stem. Your vision blurs for a second and your entire body vibrates. I usually experience this 40 to 50 times per hour. It's a frightening feeling; however, I'm taking vitamin B12 supplements to offset the surges.

But now, after terminating my medication, I feel more depressed than I ever have before. I'm not prepared to start a new medicine that will possibly grant me more adverse side-effects than my previous prescription.

I'm terrified of dedicating myself to a new medication. So I don't think I will.

But, as my college freshman self did when he was going down his spiral, I am going to continue writing.

Writing is an outlet. It soothes my anxious mind by allowing me to express ideas I don't have the ability to say out loud. Writing is an art form. When people hear the word "art," they think of paintings or sculptures, rarely about words. But what people don't realize is that art is everywhere. And everything.

Art is created by people like you and me every day. Some channel their inner problems through it, while others use it as a way to survive.

Don't let me steer you wrong. Just because I don't believe I need to be formally medicated doesn't mean you don't.

Please don't hesitate to tell someone what you're going through. It took me years to figure out my problems and months after that to properly deal with them. In the meantime, do what you think helps. With me, it's writing. With you, it could be something completely different.

And though I can't promise it, I'd like to think that we'll all be okay in the end.

Yeah, I think I'm depressed. But if I wasn't, I wouldn't be doing what I love. Writing humor has saved me from depression and depression has caused me to write humorously. It's a cycle that I'm not willing to abandon. There's a balance that needs to be achieved, and I think I've finally found it.