When we are little kids we all have the perception of wanting to grow up so bad, to be a “big kid”. We want to be on our own and show everyone what we are and be out there. I was that kid. I wanted to be someone, go somewhere, do something. As I got older things took its own turn, and by high time I was the age of 8 or 9 I didn’t have those same aspirations. I had less of a drive, less..want. I didn’t know why, was it part of growing up?

 High time I was 13 I had moved from my Oregon home to the midwest, leaving everything I knew behind. My cool summer nights spent staring at a rocky ceiling in my rural Minnesota home. My stomach pressed down with the weight of my ragdoll cat; this should be a peaceful moment, right? Why am I so sad? Well I didn’t understand. I was always so tired, I hated myself. Days spent not eating would sometimes turn into a week. I didn’t understand till it all crashed down for me.

 July 26th, 2018 is a date that I will always remember for all the wrong reasons. It’s not the usual for a 14 year old like me to wanna make an attempt on my own life. I’m not going to romanticize anything, I had been suffering the symptoms of depression for many years. I never wanted to say anything from the fear of being seen as “victimizing” myself. But, it wasn’t until my friend had called the police on me out of concern and fear, and being taken to a hospital that I realized it wasn’t a “normal part of growing up.”

The 40 minute drive with my panicked parents and myself in the back seat is something I can’t forget. Each minute passing was a full lifetime. By high time I was admitted to the hospitals Adolescent Mental Ward, I knew there was something not quite right for me upstairs. The room I was in was white, lifeless. The bed I occupied felt like stone each night, it was terrifying being in this place. I stayed overnight for 5 days, ending off with the diagnosis of MDD, and Anxiety.

It’s been nearly a full year since this experience and I’ve learned a lot. I’ve gotten a little bit better and I’ve learned my own ways of coping. I still suffer my own battles, sleepless nights, and insecurities. But I can keep taking my small steps, and they add up day after day. Mental illness is debilitating enough, and I’ve tried to dedicate time to understanding and helping my own friends who may be suffering from their own battles. It’s hard to remember sometimes that life is worth it, it’s worth the hurt and pain no matter how much my mind tried to convince myself otherwise. And I want anybody reading this to know that it’s always okay to get help. There's never any shame in being happy.