It’s been two years since I climbed a set of steel stairs in a run-down warehouse, tossed a rope through the rafters, and slid the noose around my neck. The reason for my attempt was simple: I wanted to die.

People seem to assume there is some overwhelming and passionate drive behind a suicide attempt and perhaps that's true for some. But as for my own attempt, it was pretty detached despite a few tears streaking the sweat-stuck-dirt on my face. I was tired. I spilled coffee on myself on my way to work and I got a flat tire pulling into the warehouse. By lunch time, I didn’t even want to make it home.

It was almost optimism that led me to think: “I’ve had a good run, might as well go out on my own terms.”

I wrote my goodbye and, as I went to slide my phone into my pocket, I got a text. My best friend was asking me to get help. He asked me not to do anything stupid. He said “please.” That’s the word I remember most. It was his 28th birthday. He didn’t want me to die. "Please."

So after a beat, I put my phone away, took the noose off, and climbed 8 feet back down to the dirty concrete floor and finished my shift. I don’t remember the last two hours of work, only the dry creak of weathered metal as I changed my tire then, exhausted, I drove home.

***

It took me twelve years of blatantly manifested symptoms and denial to admit that whatever it was that I had to deal with wasn’t going away on its own. I needed professional help. Here’s why:

Stigma

No matter what anyone says, there IS a stigma on mental health. My parents grew up in poverty and have worked manual labor since my childhood. That kind of upbringing degrades any emotion, as valid and formative as it may be, to a bourgeois luxury. Even among those who are more educated and accepting, a mental illness is still invisible. Particularly for those of us labeled “high-functioning.” I worked, went to school, and excelled at life; though, for much of that time I struggled. When I needed to leave for work, I would refuse to leave the house. I would want to sleep all day. The people closest to me dismissed the behaviors as laziness. They didn’t know I cried for an hour in the bathroom or spent the hours between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. staring at the ceiling in a mental spiral of self-blame.

Pride

I felt that admitting the fact that I needed help made me weak. I felt like a disappointment to my father as his first-born son. I felt as though I was an assault to the stoic ideation of masculinity I had been raised with. That kind of thinking is inane and dangerous. I was stuck inside a paradigm that idolized a complete rejection of feelings. I didn’t want to be completely dependent on a drug. According to a study, 69% of people taking antidepressants in 2015 did not qualify for Major Depressive Disorder despite taking the corresponding medication. My mother refused anything stronger than extra-strength tylenol after her hysterectomy. How could I justify taking pills for crying?

Doubt

I didn’t think I was worth it. I didn't want to be a burden to anyone, even people who dedicate their life to helping the mentally ill. Worst of all, I was afraid. I worried I would speak to a professional and find out that I was perfectly healthy. That somehow, I wouldn't "qualify" to be helped. Despite assurances from friends and family to the contrary, I convinced myself that my life amounted to little more than an inconvenience.

***

I drove home and immediately looked up the number for the suicide hotline. After fifteen minutes, I hung up and went to take a shower. At the risk of hyperbole, that shower was the single most difficult task I have ever completed in my life.

If you’re reading this and feel the same, please allow me to say this: You ARE worth it. Please, all you have to do is ask.