“When I was twenty-one I forgot how to feel. All I felt was a pit at the base of my stomach, exhaustion from running night and day from the monsters in my head, and a ringing in my ears from the thundering noise I heard on the quietest of days. My heart cried more than my eyes did, until both of those stopped. When I ran out of emotions I decided it was time to feel something or rather never feel again. I wrote letters to my loved ones and I planned a funeral that would have been better than any birthday I ever had. There was going to be tiramisu, Coldplay tunes, and a eulogy that would make you laugh so hard your stomach would hurt. Most of all, you were not allowed to wear black unless it was genuinely one of your favorite pieces of clothing. I had spaghetti with my family that night and I told them I loved them one last time. I spent the night packing up my room so that my mother wouldn’t have to once I was gone. It was 9 am and everyone had gone about their Wednesday like any other, while I filled my bathtub to the brim. I was a college swimmer, I had practiced holding my breath under water since I was ten. I was really good at it. I did the math, I could hold my breath long enough to drown myself. After all, it only takes three minutes before you need air. Three minutes wasn’t enough. I woke up in a behavioral hospital the next day. I wanted to scream louder than the airplanes flying above the walls I couldn’t reach. I wanted to sob a bucket worth of tears and drown myself in them. I wanted to die. Yet all I could do was stare at the psychiatrist talking to me. I tried to talk, I tried to find an explanation, but I couldn’t pull my lips apart. All I knew in that moment was that I was still alive, I was held against my will, and I was alone – again. I spent days sleeping next to new faces because they kept leaving faster than I could read a new book. I heard and saw things I cannot unsee. I was robbed of privacy and trust. I was being forced to survive against my desire and I had to do it by myself. My mom came to visit once, she said it was something I had to do alone. My dad called once, he said he had to be with his wife because she just had a miscarriage. I couldn’t call anyone unless they called the hospital, yet I bet nobody knew I was there. So again — I was alone. Years passed and nobody asked me how I was doing nor offered me a hug. However, the things that didn’t pass were my major depressive and generalized anxiety disorders. These illnesses don’t just surface and disappear because you longer sleep on a hospital bed. In fact, they linger and they try ruining your life at the most inconvenient times. To be clear, my illness is not a synonym for sadness that you find in a thesaurus. It is not a bad day because someone cut you off on the freeway or because you forgot your lunch at home. My illness is caution tape wrapped around my body because I don’t know when it will suddenly get the urge to hit me or better yet hit you too. It could cause me to break when you think I’m at my happiest and I am left to step on the pieces. My illness is the devil with its hands around my throat making it harder to breathe. It is what pushes me out of my seat and keeps me from sleep. My illness isn’t an adjective that you use because you hate your life today. My illness is hating every single day even the most beautiful ones. It is loving your life and being too sick to enjoy it. My illness is a disease. A disease that is covered with shame because society has plastered a stigma all over it. People with cancer are called fighters and people with mental health disorders are called weak. So if I had cancer would you then ask how I am doing? Would you then offer a hug? Would you then say it’s okay to take medication? If I had cancer would you then not be embarrassed to tell your family about it? My disease could kill me just as quickly or slowly as cancer would. So next time you’re calling someone “crazy” or telling them it is “in their head” please remember that it is just as serious as cancer. To most of you this might be surprising news. You had no idea because you made assumptions about my life based on my job, my fancy car, or my occasional vlog. Others of you did know, yet you brushed me off because you didn’t think it was serious or because you thought I somehow knew you cared even though you haven’t reached out. No matter where you stand in my life today, I hope that after reading this you’ll be an advocate for mental health and more importantly you’ll be the support I need in my life — not just today, but for the rest of my life.”
