Coping is hard. Sometimes we can’t do it. Sometimes we feel like it isn’t even worth a shot. It’s easier to give up. It’s easier to avoid treatment, but ignoring anxiety? Ignoring depression? Bipolar disorder? That’s not easy to do.

But I managed to do it.

I’m not happy. In fact, I’m far from it. You see 2016 was a less than kind year. Mostly everyone can agree with that. I’ve been hurt and bruised. I’ve been down since the end of June and have enormous amounts of trouble maintaining a healthy state of happiness for more than a few hours. Because I managed to ignore my mental illness for far too long knowing full well that it was getting bad.

I talked myself into it – “You’ve dealt with this countless times.” “It’s just another bump, you’re fine!” So, I let everything sit. I didn’t REALLY notice how bad things were getting until around September. The way I noticed should’ve been a red flag, a HUGE red flag; I had a very minor anxiety attack. It was nothing major, just the standard ones I get every once in a while. So, you’re probably wondering “Well if it was minor, why was it a red flag?” The reason that is, is because I don’t get anxiety attacks very often and when they occur it tends to signal something much bigger. Never ignore your flags. Never find complacency with them. They’re there for a reason.

I sat in my depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder wading through the waves as they approached because I couldn’t let it get in the way of my daily routine. I’d get up, go to school to be with friends and then go to therapy and work as the days continued. My friends didn’t really seem to notice that anything was genuinely wrong, and that’s not their fault. They aren’t ignorant and they are very supportive, I’m just good at hiding everything. This continued for months before I started to feel off.

Then within the first week of December I collapsed. Not literally, but I’ve never experienced anything like it. I had a panic attack, while at school, that lasted about 16 hours total. I had friends clinging to me for nearly the entire time. I was scared of myself. I couldn’t stop shaking, crying, sweating; I just wasn’t going to come to my senses anytime soon. They knew I was scared of myself and that’s why they were holding onto me and holding me down. Eventually I had to go home because I really needed to be somewhere that wasn’t public and had a lot of other thoughts that needed to be acknowledged.

I got home and continued to work on school work (keep in mind that I’d been working on my school work for almost 24 hours straight WHILE having this attack which didn’t help). Eventually I fell asleep, but with two friends at my side making sure I was safe. I managed two hours of sleep then immediately went upstairs as soon as I heard movement from my parents.

The hardest part of getting help, especially with a mental illness, is admitting that you NEED to get it. It’s something that every human being with a mental illness struggles with because we’re already a burden. We don’t want to bring it up because a lot of us feel shame. We work so hard to be okay and when we aren’t we can’t say anything because people are so proud of us for doing so well.

What triggered the absolute necessity of asking for help from my parents was that I knew that if I didn’t get help then I would be dead. That’s straightforward and sad but that’s how it is when I get bad. My loved ones work so hard to keep me afloat, I needed to make sure that I was doing what needed to be done in order to make it out alive.

I saw my psychiatrist, got checked into 2 Central at the Hunterdon Medical Center, and stayed there for about a week. I learned a lot while I was there. Maybe not necessarily anything about how to deal with my mental illness but I got a few other opinions on the state of my mental health. I was given the diagnoses of acute depression and anxiety along with the bipolar disorder. What I DID learn was about the people that are in these facilities.

We’re messed up. We aren’t typical. We see things. We hear things. We shake and cry and we feel hopeless. We lose everything that means the world to us. We forget about the people who love us. We hate ourselves and we fall apart when we try to love ourselves. We’re on a million and one medications and we take them around the clock. We feel like vessels for our issues. We no longer want to live. We don’t want help and we’re forced to be there. That’s what everyone assumes.

That’s not what I found. We’re not monsters. Yeah, we’re really messed up but that doesn’t mean anything. I met some of the nicest people I have ever come into contact with. We support each other and the amount of empathy in that one small area was more than enough to fill a million and one football stadiums. I fell in love over and over again with the people that I had just met.

We are all scared. We all lose our paths and we have very little light to make it out of our darkest moments. We are all there because we want to be better for ourselves. We want to learn how to love ourselves. We have so much potential that we very seldom see because we’re so wrapped up in the negatives. The hospital made sure to continue reminding us that we have that potential, always.

I have a lot of work to do, just like everyone else who struggles does. I encourage those who struggle deeply to get help, even if it’s something that you’re used to dealing with. It’s hard to find love for yourself. It’s hard to find a sense of self-worth, but we’re trying and trying is all we can do.

And I will never stop trying to find love for myself. I will never stop wanting to live and I will never stop trying to get help. At the end of the day I have done everything I can to help myself.

And that’s more than enough to keep me breathing. And it should be for you, too.