By the title of this article, you're either here because you're in pain or someone you love is, and either way you're worried. It's going to be okay though, whether you are depressed, lonely, have an anxiety disorder, an eating disorder, etc. etc. I can't sit here and say it's going to get better, it's just temporary, and other things like that because I know those aren't always the case; however, I can say things will be okay. Things get easier, but you have to take steps to make things better; you have to reach out to someone and let them know what's happening. Sitting alone in a room all the time isn't helping yourself- it's making you worse. As someone who has suffered with depression for a long time, I can tell you it freaking sucks. It's almost like you're drowning, and every time you think you've broken the surface to get some air, you just choke on more water. You want to better yourself, you want to socialize, you want to get out of bed; but every time you try there's something there telling you you aren't worth it, no one wants you there anyway, you're too ugly for anyone to want you. You just consistently want to curl into a ball and cry at all yourself of the day, and it only gets worse if you do nothing about it.

About a year ago, I started going into school late and missing classes just because I couldn't see the point anymore; I didn't see the point of going into a place where everyone judged me whether it was because of my grades, my clothes, my face. I was tired of what my English teacher calls "porch sitters" interfering with my view of myself because I was already telling myself all of the things they were thinking; "she's ugly," "she's weird," "she's too loud," "she's fat." With all of these negative thoughts came the idea of suicide- I genuinely couldn't see the point of being alive anymore. I started thinking about the different ways I could take my own life; taking pills, cutting my wrists, even driving off of a bridge. It isn't something I enjoyed talking to people about. My mom was away for a reason I don't even remember, and I was at my aunt's house checking in with her. I just started breaking down- I mean, I told her almost everything I was feeling with a supernatural amount of calm. I left that night, and knew I had to tell my mom; my guidance counselor had reached out to her because I had missed my AP Biology class everyday that week, and she was livid. I had no choice but to tell her the truth.

When she got home, our encounter was something like I had never experienced; she was yelling trying to understand, and I was sobbing because she said she was taking me to a hospital. Once we had both calmed down, we decided to wait and talk to my counselor before making any decisions. I can't remember what he said, but I ended up going to a behavioral health institution for a psychiatric evaluation. I spoke to the woman asking me basic questions in a tone that implied she had been doing it for years, and I replied apathetically with no emotion detectable. She spoke with the doctor, and I was admitted immediately; meanwhile, my counselor notified all of my teachers so were aware that I was in the hospital for mental health reasons.

The hospital was something entirely new; it was a plethora of information on people I would never see again, and people that had problems of their own. In the hospital, everything became focused on why you were there. I was there for six days, and in that time, I was put on the antidepressant Prozac. I wish I could divulge more into my experience there, but I do not want to give any accidental information pertaining to the girls I was with.

Anyway, the day after my release I went back to school. It was odd to say the least; my teachers looked at me with pity and spoke to me like I would break if they had the smallest of criticisms to lay upon me. It was like my friends and superiors- everyone i respected- saw the word fragile tattooed to my skin anywhere their eyes happened on me. I started seeing a therapist, and it actually helped; she's a wonderful lady that truly tried to understand where I was coming from. I went once a week, and- with my medicine- I started to feel alive again. I stopped thinking about the future as an "if," and started seeing it as a "when."

Then I found solace with God, but I stopped taking my meds and seeing my doctor; I thought that since I have God, I was immune to depression. I'm not. I relapse. I cry. I have breakdowns. It's just another part of being human. I shouldn't have discontinued my medication, and I shouldn't have stopped seeing my doctor because those things helped me. I plan to get back on my medication and start seeing my doctor again because I am not afraid to ask for help anymore. I am also not afraid to ask for prayer which has been a very prominent part of my life recently.

So if you're suffering from a mental illness, do not be afraid to ask for help. Reach out to a teacher, a friend, a parent, anyone because you deserve to feel human. You DESERVE to feel wanted and needed in this world. You DESERVE happiness, but you have to take the first step.