I spent almost a week of my life in a mental hospital. That is something a lot of people would not be comfortable saying to the world. I can tell you there is no shame in it. I was having issues with my medications, and I felt extremely depressed so I made a decision and had to do what I felt kept me safe.

While I was there, I kept an intensive journal, I kept a daily schedule, and I took back some memories that will stay with me forever. I want to take a few minutes to try to explain to you what it all was like through my eyes.

I arrived on a Friday after spending many sleepless nights crying because I felt like a prisoner to thoughts of pain and helplessness. I was taken by a doctor to an intimate room where they took my vitals and started asking me about what brought me there. I explained to him my terrible nightmares, and my thoughts of hurting myself, and how I just wanted an escape. After about an hour they decided that inpatient treatment for five to seven days would help me get back to where I should be.

The next day I came back ready for my week free from danger. They looked through my bags, did another vitals check, a drug test, then showed me around. I was the youngest member of the unit. My roommate was 24. There were about 30 of us there, each with a roommate and a bathroom to ourselves. They took away my blanket, my pens and pencils, and any article of clothing that had string on it.

The first question anyone would ask me was "what are you in for?" like it was prison or something. I simply explained that I admitted myself for depression, but quickly learned that I asked others the same thing as soon as we met.

Each day we had music therapy, recreation therapy, pet therapy, and 2 classes of psychotherapy in a group. I was told I would get to meet with my doctor and my therapist every single day, but I learned very quickly that wasn't true.

I like to think that I'm a well adjusted 19-year-old who can get by without a cell phone, but sitting in bed with nothing to do makes you realize that even though life is paused for you, the world is still moving outside of the walls around you and that's enough to drive you crazy. I missed my phone. I missed my friends. I missed my family.

I wrote down some common phrases I heard there daily: "Anything to help me get out of here faster." "Did you actually sleep?" "What pills do they have you on?" "What brought you here?" "I just want to go home."

Each morning a nurse would stroll into our room at 7:30 a.m. to get our vitals and ask if we had any pain. I remember one morning I woke up to a nurse at 7 a.m. coming in to draw my blood.

My biggest issue was the fact that I was there for five days and I only met one-on-one with my therapist once, and I only saw her for about five minutes. I met with my doctor three times for about six minutes, and I couldn't understand what qualified him to prescribe drugs to me that changed the way my mind worked. The whole process was frustrating.

I did make friends, they liked to pick on me, and I kept saying, "Only I would get made fun of in a mental hospital." But the friendships helped with everything.

When I got told I was safe to go home, I had never been so happy. I just wanted to be free to make my own choices again, and now I know that if I'm ever getting that low again, I have many friends to support me. My phone blew up with messages of love and prayers when I turned it back on. My support system was overflowing, and I was so grateful for everyone that took the effort to reach out to me.

If you are feeling low, or like hurting yourself, don't be afraid to reach out. It is the bravest thing you can do. You are worth the air you are taking up. If finding your next breath is a chore, complete the task. Believe me. Have hope.