I remember it like it was yesterday. The day I finally cracked. Feeling numb, alone, and hurt… I officially accepted reality. I stumbled into my mom’s bedroom, and finally, after multiple years of battling anxiety and depression, said the words I never thought I would say, “I need help.”

That night was only the beginning. The smell of the hospital lingers in my head. The sounds, sights, and atmosphere of that emergency room is something I will never forget for the rest of my life. After a long, sleepless night, we concluded along side many different doctors that the best thing for my health was to admit me into an outpatient program to finally end the years of hopelessness and hurt.

My first few days there, the only feeling I had was defeat. I felt like I officially let my inner demons get the best of me. They won, and brought me to where I was. I felt so weak. Physically, mentally, and emotionally weak. My entire life growing up, I was raised to fight for what I wanted. By getting help, I felt like I lost that fight.

While spending seven hours of my day in the hospital, I did many different things from music therapy to group therapy. It took a couple days for my head to finally wrap around what was going on, but once I finally realized the blessing I was given, everything completely changed. I spoke up more and started using healthy coping methods as opposed to unhealthy ones. I physically became stronger. Mentally, felt on top of the world. I was in heaven, finally feeling like I had a purpose.

After three weeks of treatment, my outlook on mental hospitals completely changed. The stigma of mental rehabilitation centers is not at all what I experienced. After breaking the ice, getting to know my environment, and keeping an open mind, my life was finally going in the direction that I had worked so many years for. The sad part is, I am one of the lucky ones. I’m lucky enough to have the courage to keep fighting, while others have given up. I am so grateful for the time I’ve spent getting better. It has truly saved my life.

I was discharged from the hospital the day before my 18th birthday. Since then, I cannot sit and say it’s been easy. Most of all, I definitely cannot say that I have not relapsed. What I can say, is that I am finally happy, healthy, and excited for the future. Listen to your body. When it’s crying out for help, go get it. You wouldn’t just ignore a broken arm, would you? Treat a broken heart exactly the same. Getting the help you need does not, I repeat, DOES NOT, make you weak. All it does is show your strength and drive to finally fix the damage that you’ve lived with. Take control, and show those nasty thoughts who is in charge.

Mental illnesses are no joke, and should never be treated as such. We’ve all heard it a million times before, but everyone has their own unique story. Nobody is perfect, and I can promise you one thing; once you make that exact realization, you will end up just like me. Thriving.