It was around 5:00 p.m. on a Saturday, I was on the floor of my bathroom with a bottle of pills in my hand and a razor resting on my leg. I was hyperventilating. I couldn't breathe. Everything felt so hazy. Everything felt so pointless.

I called my mom. She called my roommate/best friend, Savannah... then Savannah called 911.

The most I remember from being in the bathroom was Savannah calling for an ambulance and hearing the crack in her voice from crying so much while being on the phone with my dad and stepmom, and my mom on the phone with me, crying and saying, "You can't leave me. Do you hear me? You can't leave me here." I remember being in the ambulance, watching Savannah follow as I was telling the paramedic that we couldn't afford this and I had to go home. I was very incoherent, apparently. I wasn't making sense.

Once I got to the hospital, I was taken into the psychiatric ER. I was greeted with a girl screaming her head off, throwing the phone, and attempting to break out of the locked facility. Two security guards had to pull her off of the door, as she was about to break it. I looked at the nurse who gave me a gown to change into, and said, "I don't belong here," at least 20 times.

I sat in the psychiatric ER for 6 hours. I sat on a cot and looked at the ceiling. I was calling my family to let them know I was waiting to be seen, and was hoping to be out soon. Sadly, that wasn't the case. At 12 a.m., I was taken up to the women's mental health floor and was admitted until Monday morning.

Once brought up, I was under the impression I was going to be able to leave in the morning. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. The psychiatrist on call did not feel comfortable letting me leave because he was not my assigned psychiatrist, so he kept me there. For the next 36 hours, I was to stay in a room with nothing but a bed, a mini bathroom, and four pale blue walls.

I didn't eat while I was there. I didn't interact with the other women on the floor. One of them actually came to my room and told me how anti-social I was and I wasn't good with people because I didn't leave my room. She said that they all wanted to get to know me, but truth be told — I didn't want to know them. I didn't want to leave my room and then have it feel more real than it actually was. I got word searches from the activity room, and did about 24 of them during my stay. I read the same articles at least 3 times each to keep my mind occupied. I forced myself to sleep most of my time there away, so I could wake up and it could be time to leave. But most of the time, my time was spent staring at the pale blue walls, rocking back and forth, trying to convince myself I wasn't crazy, because I wasn't. I wasn't crazy. I was just a girl who lost her way, and kept her mouth shut for too long. I was a girl who desperately needed help. I was scared, and alone, and I just wanted to go home.

Later on in the day Sunday, Savannah visited me during visiting hours, where she surprised me with my mom. My mom had flown in from Long Island that morning, and I remember grabbing her so tightly. I cried, a lot. She cried, a lot. And I suddenly felt okay. Having interaction with people made me feel better, made me stop doubting myself and my sanity.

The next afternoon I was finally released. I got to put on my clothes from two days prior, get my personal belongings back and go home with Savannah and my mom. The next day, I began therapy, and was prescribed medication. I'm being treated for heightened anxiety, depression, and an adjustment disorder.

It's been over two months since I was admitted, and I'm not going to sit here and say everything is sunshine and butterflies, because it isn't. Recovery is difficult, and that's what I'm doing — I'm recovering. It isn't just for alcoholics or drug addicts, it's for depression too. I'll be honest, the medication and therapy work here and there — but I still have my flashbacks. Sometimes I still go back to that room and picture my looking out the window that was literally caged in wishing I had a way to get out. Sometimes I still feel that defenseless, I'll still feel that stuck. But I'm trying to change how I handle those feelings.

For a long time I kept my mouth quiet over how I felt because I was shamed and embarrassed. I had an attempt in 8th grade, and ever since I had prided myself in not looking to suicide as an answer. I had constantly preached how things were temporary and things get better. How could somebody who was claiming to be so strong have fallen back into a darker place than before?

But keeping quiet is not the answer. Hiding is not the answer. Suicide is not the answer. And every time I have a flashback of that room, I'm reminded as to how I never want to end up back there. I'm reminded of Savannah's crackle in her voice as she told police that I was trying to kill myself. I'm reminded of my mother holding on to me for dear life. I'm reminded of my dad and stepmom trying to reassure me that getting help was okay and didn't make me weak. I'm reminded of my little brother asking me if I was going to be okay, and hearing the fear in his voice.

I have a lot to live for, I really do. I'm graduating college in nine months — something I didn't even think I would be around to do. I work for six incredible girls who brighten my day whenever I walk through the door. I have friends who will be and have been there by my side throughout the hardships I've faced while being away from my family, and I have a family that doesn't let distance destroy the close bond we've had for years.

Being admitted may have been one of the scariest things that has happened in my life, but it's also become one of the things I'm most grateful for. I'm grateful for the amount of help and support I've received from my loved ones during this traumatic time. I'm grateful for the resources I've been supplied with since. I'm grateful for the kind nurses who took care of me and talked with me when I felt I was losing my mind. I'm grateful for the fact that I was forced to get help, because if I didn't, I don't know if I would be writing this right now.

I'm still working on things. I still have my weak moments. I still have nights where I sit in bed and cry because I'm not happy with myself. But instead of keeping quiet now, I call somebody. I don't care who it is, but I vent. I talk about how I'm feeling and then I'm able to rationalize the situation a little better. It's okay to ask for help, and that's something I still need to understand. It doesn't make you weak, it actually makes you strong. The road to my recovery isn't going to be easy, and I'm aware of that. But, it's important that I take those first steps. It's important that I learn to manage things better. It's important that I stop beating myself up over what happened, because it may have been the very thing to save my life. And for that, I'm forever thankful.