It's very upsetting, nowadays, how students and teenagers often share more common mental disorders than they do favorite songs. The percentage of individuals facing mental illness keeps growing but these statistics are made up of people just like you and me. The girl cracking jokes next to you in class could be diagnosed with an eating disorder; the star football player on the team might be living with major depression. It could be your best friend, silently suffering from anxiety, your boyfriend, your girlfriend, or even yourself. All of these people make up a percentage of one of the most painful and agonizing illnesses. Most people know at least one person struggling with mental illness. And if you don't -- but you know me -- now, you do.

While I like to believe that the world is composed of sunshine and smiles, I know very well that it isn't. My plethora of positive outbursts in person and on social media is, of course, to spread happiness to all of the people I care about, but it also serves as a reminder to myself that I have to stay positive, that I have to keep fighting. I genuinely mean everything I say and, of course, I want nothing more than for everyone to be happy, healthy, and motivated. But it wasn't always like that.

At one point in my life, I really thought it was all over. My grades were plummeting, my friendships were sailing away, my relationship was crumbling, and it was like I was hurting everybody around me, so I chose to mask it. It seems like the easiest thing to do, right? Wrong. It made everything worse. Medications made 90 percent of senior year feel foggy and unclear, and while everyone would be professing their love and support, I just heard muffled sounds and continued to blame myself. This was a process that completely consumed me. Getting out of bed was suddenly painful, and I was exhausted. Mental illness drains anyone and everyone, and it all happens so quickly.

It was like running an extremely long race and having one lap between you and the finish line. You're doing great, moving fast, and feeling good, but suddenly everything just catches up to you, and the finish line seems farther away than ever. You fall on your knees, feel all eyes on you, and you want to get up so badly, but you physically can't. Your legs suddenly weigh a hundred pounds and you can't breathe; all you can do is lay there and feel it. You're depressed because you wanted to finish so badly, you knew you had the ability to, but you didn't. You hate yourself; it's all your fault. You get angry because you were so close. Any normal person could get back up and finish that last, stupid lap. Why couldn't you? What's wrong with you? On top of all of that, you just feel helpless and weak. Why bother finishing? What's the point? Who even cares anymore? That was me.

A high honor roll student, president of multiple clubs, a candidate for the "everyone's friend" superlative, a genuinely happy girl. I had plenty of friends, a loving family, and a bright future as a writer. I was so close to finishing high school and attending the dream school I was accepted into. So close. And then I fell down and couldn't get back up. I hated the way that my parents looked at me; I hated the way they blamed themselves. It wasn't their fault. It wasn't anybody else's fault. It was mine, and I didn't know why. I read articles and books and stayed up until 3 a.m. on online "support groups" because I was so ashamed to look anyone in the eye and admit that I had a mental disorder. I hated myself, I hated it all.

Mental illness isn't a phase. It's not something that passes by in a few days, or even a few weeks. Mental illness can't be solved with a "just try harder" or "just allow yourself to be happy." Nobody wants to feel this way. Nobody asks for it. One of the hardest things is reaching out for help, and so many people run away from that because it's perceived as a sign of weakness. But the truth? Reaching out does not make you weak. Reaching out for help makes you stronger. It means that you know that something is wrong, and you need to be helped. It's always weird at first, too. Sitting in a room with a complete stranger and being expected to spill your life story and somehow feel better is a confusing concept, but the point of therapy is to help you find answers within yourself. Mental illness takes its time. It takes time to recover, time to feel normal again, time to learn how to live again.

I'm not really sure when I decided to start fighting back. It wasn't like waking up one morning and deciding to sweep the whole thing under the carpet and pretend it didn't happen. The medications that I eventually stopped taking, obviously, had some effect, but I also started becoming stronger. I fought for my family, taking every possible measure to make sure that I was at least comfortable during this transition. For my mom, who reminded me to take my medication every day, and my dad -- who would let me sit and just spill out my feelings, no matter how dark. I fought for my true friends, who stayed by my side the entire ride, even if it just meant sitting in silence while watching the same episode of our favorite television show for the third time in a row. I fought for my teachers, who allowed me to finish my work without feeling extremely overwhelmed from all the pressures of senior year. They were so kind. And I fought for myself. I didn't want this ugly feeling inside of me anymore. I fought it, and it was hard, but I did it. Do I still have panic attacks? Yes. Does my mind occasionally wander to what could have happened? Yes. Am I OK? Yes. Am I really okay? Yes. Am I happy? Absolutely.

I have learned to love myself, imperfections and all. I have learned to accept that the world isn't a perfect place, and sometimes things happen without a clear explanation as to why. I have learned that I'm a lot stronger than I thought I was, and now I'm so grateful for every day. I'm grateful for my new life at college. I'm grateful for my life exactly how it is now. I'm so grateful to be alive. I got back up, and I'm finishing this race.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: (800) 273-8255