Panic

The second plane finally landed in Orange County and as I walked off, I suddenly felt lost. Although it wasn't the first time I'd flown by myself, I stood in the middle of the terminal and looked all around me, unsure of what to do. Hurried people rushed past me and I remained glued to the ground. It felt like the airport was closing in on me and I struggled to catch my breath. This was one of many panic attacks I had to deal with just in that week alone. A woman came up and tapped me on the shoulder as I struggled to fill my lungs. "Miss, are you lost? I know this airport really well. What are you looking for?" I turned towards her and suddenly felt nauseated. Bathroom. I somehow managed to say while gasping for air. She led me to the restroom where I ran and threw up in the stall. Feeling a little better, I cleaned myself up and put in a piece of gum. The kind woman had waited with me and led me in the direction of baggage claim. As we were walking, I kept thinking what if Allison isn't here yet. What if I flew all this way and I need to wait for her. I really just need to see her right now.

After saying goodbye to the woman, I stepped onto the escalator that led to baggage claim. Once I knew I wasn't going to trip on the moving stairs, I looked up. Waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs was Allison; arms crossed, tears in her eyes, and a smile across her face. At that moment, time stood still. All I wanted to do was run down the stairs. Unfortunately, there were people two steps below me and I resisted the urge to plow through them. What seemed like the longest escalator of my life finally ended and I ran towards Allison. I threw my stuff on the ground and we hugged for a good couple of minutes. "You did it. Rachel, I'm so proud of you. You did it!" For the first time since I said goodbye to Janale that morning, I felt like I could actually breathe. Allison wrapped her arm around me and walked me to my carousel as I (once again) sobbed. I tried to calm myself down as we walked, but every time I remembered what was happening, a new round of sobbing began. We stood there staring at the empty carousel when Allison turned and said "Okay, Rachel. It's not all over. You've done great so far, but we've still got a ways to go. You know that, right?" I nodded and tried to soothe my jagged sobbing. "Good. We'll be there in about 45 minutes." The look on my face must have expressed the trapped feeling that overcame my insides because Allison quickly tried to calm me down. "Rach, it's okay. We're getting your bags and we've still got a 45 minute drive. Don't worry, I'm not going to just leave you. I'm going to come in with you and it will be good." I shook my head and started muttering under my breath. Allison reached over to wrap her arm around me, but I yanked myself free. I ran away from her and turned my back so I could full-on cry. An ugly, body-convulsing, snot-choking, face-blotching cry. Before I could finish, she was right beside me with her arm around my shoulders. "Rachel, it's okay to cry. In fact, it's good. You've been holding it all in for a long time now. But, you don't need to be alone anymore. I'm going to be here. It's okay to need someone." I was still pissed. Somehow, I had gotten this idea in my head that we were going to go to her house for the night and get up the next morning to check in. This was not what I had signed up for. My bags finally came and as I reached for them, Allison tried to help me. Shoving her away from my bags, I rudely and willfully told her to stop and that "I had it". For some reason, I really wanted to do this on my own.

After both my bags were off the carousel, Allison once again tried to help me. And, I once again refused to let her. I threw my duffel bag onto my rolling suitcase and shrugged my purse onto my shoulder. With my free hand, I gripped my quilt and we walked towards the parking garage. Despite my stubborn refusal of help, Allison continued to wrap her arm around my shoulder in case I needed her. I would be curious what thoughts were running through her mind right then. It may have been amusing to watch me be so silly and stubborn. Or, she may have been frustrated to see that despite the months of her desperate attempts to help me, I continued to push her away.

Getting to her car, she tried for a third time to help me. I may or may not have shoved her hand away while she reached for my suitcases. "Allison, I've got this. Seriously." While I lifted my first suitcase, Allison put my second one in (she's stubborn, too!), despite my determination to stop her. She shut the trunk and we walked to our respective sides: she on the driver's side and I on the passenger's. I got to the door and froze. One hand held the handle and the other clutched my quilt. Allison had already slid into her seat and buckled her seatbelt. She looked over her shoulder and saw me standing there and quickly got out of the car. As I looked back and saw her getting out, I doubled over and cried. My face squished into my quilt and and Allison gently rubbed her hand on my back. "Rachel, my friend. It's okay. This is not the end. You've made it so far. You can cry and take the time you need, but it's going to be fine. When you're finished we can talk this through." Many moments later, I sat my head up and choked back the tears. "Rachel. Here's what we're doing. We're going to drive to the hospital. I'm going to be honest, I'm not 100% sure this is where you need to be. But if it is, we will meet with the people and talk it through and then you will check in. I live so close and I will visit you, call you, whatever you need. I'm here for you. You know you need to do this, otherwise you wouldn't have come all this way." The whole time she was talking I was muttering "no no no no no no no. I can't do this." over and over again. She turned to me and said "Okay, are we done crying? Catch your breath and get in the car. You can do it."

With the sassy angst of a teenager (even though I was technically no longer a teen), I slid into the car and continued to slowly cry. I desperately wanted to stop crying because I wanted to be brave. I wanted Allison to see me being brave. However, as soon as I managed to get the tears to subside, a new wave would overcome me and my fear would get the better of me. I thought I was being a baby, but I think when you're about to embark on the hardest thing of your life so far, you're allowed to cry. You're allowed to admit "Okay, this is hard. I am scared. AND I'm doing it anyway."

Plane Ride Kindness

After leaving multiple incoherent voicemails, it was finally time for me to board the plane. I grabbed my purse and blankie and followed the lines of people onto the cramped plane. Somehow, I ended up with a glorious aisle seat and as soon as I sat down, the tears began to flood again. The unknown scared me and I trembled in my seat, knowing that there was so much more to come. With my favorite quilt/ blankie folded on my lap, I shoved my face into it in an attempt to muffle my sobbing. After a few moments, it became harder to breathe and I lifted my head to gain some "fresh" airplane air. This pain and heartache was only the beginning. I looked around me and saw that many people were staring at me. Across the aisle a young mother and her two small girls played with American Girl dolls. The mom reached across and grabbed my hand. She had no idea what was going on in my life at that moment, but that small act of random kindness helped to calm me as we flew. Despite calming down slightly, I continued to bawl the whole flight.

The first flight passed rather slowly. I fell asleep for a portion of it and then spent the rest of the flight trying to read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for the bajillionth time. Towards the end of the flight, we hit a huge patch of turbulence. I've flown in tiny Guatemalan planes before, so it didn't phase me much. At least until the plane suddenly dropped down and the lights went out for a brief moment. We all held our breath waiting for the plane to recover. Luckily, it was a very short bump in the flight and it did recover. In the middle of the turbulence, I couldn't help but think of the irony. Here I was heading to go save my life so I wouldn't die, and I was scared because I thought the plane would crash. I was scared. I realized that I wasn't ready to die. I thought I was, but I wasn't. I wanted my pain to be over, but I didn't want this life to be over. I just wanted to be free of the heartache. 

Soon after the life-altering turbulence, we landed in Oakland, California. Announcements were made over the intercom, but I wasn't paying enough attention. I heard something about my next flight, but didn't know what they had said. I leaned over to the young mom and asked if she had heard the announcement. She nodded and told me to just stay on the flight as this was the same plane taking me to Orange County. I sat in my seat as the young mother and her two daughters slowly exited. The mom, arms filled with bags and toys, reached over and held my hand one last moment. "Hon, I don't know what's going on, but it's all going to be alright. Wherever you're headed, it's where you need to be and one day this will just be a far-off memory." The floodgates re-opened and I thanked her as she left. That made two moments that this inspired woman showed me a kindness I'll never forget.

Knowing it would be a while before the next flight left, I turned on my phone to see if anyone had texted me. Along with texts from Allison, Tara (my best friend's mom) had returned a call I'd made earlier (which was probably very incoherent). I quickly dialed her number and hoped she'd picked up. I don't remember the conversation, but it felt good to know that she knew what was going on. It was cut short by the start of everyone filing onto the next flight. I hung up and started crying again. As I sat there waiting, a text came in from Tara. "Rachel. I love you! You are not alone. Stay safe!! XO" The slow stream of tears became sobs with this. Trying to distract myself, I checked my social media. Pulling up twitter, I had a notification from my roommate, Melissa. "Girl, you got this! I miss you and I love you and I'll see you soon. <3 <3 <3" Although I couldn't escape the reminders of what I was doing, it suddenly dawned on me how many people were rooting for me. What I feared would be the end of various friendships proved to be a huge outpouring of love and support. Somehow, that thought calmed me down a little bit and I was able to peacefully read my Harry Potter book for the rest of the flight. 

I Don't Say Goodbyes

After what seemed like the shortest hour of my life, we arrived at the Salt Lake City Airport with plenty of time to spare. We drove around the loops and circles of the airport trying to get to the correct terminal. "Do you want me to come in with you, Rach? I can help you check into your flight." I sat there debating what to say. I wasn't ready to say goodbye yet, but I didn't want to burden her. "Don't you have classes to get back to, Janale?" "I'm already late anyway. It's decided; I'm walking you in." I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn't want to admit it, but I was not ready to say goodbye.

Praying we ended up in the correct location, we pulled into the nearest open spot. I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. My heart started pounding when I realized that with each step, I was getting closer to another goodbye. We grabbed my luggage from Janale's over-stuffed trunk. I hefted a bag over my shoulder and took another deep breath. This road was continually overwhelming. Each step seemed to bring about its own hurdle. We carefully jumped over the imaginary barrier and made our way towards the Southwest counter.

Weighing my bags, the attendant asked me how old Janale was. "Oh... uh, twenty? But she's not the one flying today. I am." The lady looked confused. Walking away from the attendant, we laughed at the awkward encounters we seemed to always attract. I turned so I could watch as my two bags were loaded into the machine. I watched them slowly crawl along the conveyor belt until I couldn't see them anymore. Jan gently tapped my shoulder and told me it was time to go through security. We walked arm in arm the entire way. At the entrance to the security line, I paused. It was time to split up and I would be alone for the first time since I decided to check in. I dropped my carry-on blanket and purse as Janale enveloped me. I cried again as she whispered, "I don't say goodbyes, so you'd better not say it either." I squeezed her tighter and choked up while I attempted to whisper back. "Janale, I don't care. Thank you for driving me. I love you. I'll miss you. And I'm saying it... Goodbye. See you in a month." I broke down again. Janale reached her hand out to stroke my arm. We stood there for another second and then she turned to go. All alone, I continued to stand in that one spot. I looked back just in time to see the back of Janale disappear out the door.

I turned towards security and was overwhelmed by the process. I wanted to stand there just a little longer. The tears slowly rolled down my cheeks as I bent down to gather up my belongings. Somehow, the tears just never seemed to stop-- I kept waiting to run out of tears, but they just streamed down incessantly. Salty tears seeped into my mouth and I fumbled to get into the correct line. I tried to muffle my sobs in my blanket as the line progressed towards the innumerable TSA security members. "Please have your I.D. ready when you get to the scanner." I searched my pockets for the plastic card of my 15 year old self. Through my blotchy, red eyes, I stared down at the picture. Five years had passed since I was first handed that card. My mind took control and I thought about all that had happened and changed since I was deemed a suitable driver. While my mind wandered, I somehow made it through the monotonous process of security. My body went through the motions, allowing my mind to drift off. I continued on and slowly made my way to gate 63 at the very end of the terminal. Each step drained me a little bit more. By the time I sat down in an uncomfortable, plastic seat I was exhausted. All the crying and lack of sleep made every movement an Olympic event. The only thing I wanted at this point was to finally see Allison. And then I remembered that there were still so many people to contact. Like my best friend. Or my best friend's mom.

Sitting in the loud, communal seating at gate 63, my hands shook as I dialed my best friend, Clare. For over twelve years we'd been best friends- through thick and thin- and I dreaded what she would say in response. She picked up at the last second and I quickly asked if she had a minute. "yes, I have ten as I walk to class, does tha..." Before she could finished speaking, I blurted out "sooo I'm getting ready to board to a plane. To california. I dropped out of school. And I'm checking myself into a psych ward" I'd gotten pretty good at saying that sentence all in one breath. I don't remember much of the conversation other than the fact that she was in total shock. Ten minutes passed and the conversation was still going. "Clare, you need to get to class. I just wanted you to know what was happening. I'll call you when I have more details and a better idea of what's going to happen." We hung up and I could tell she was still in shock. I took a deep breath and dialed her mom's number. Like I said, Clare and I had been best friends since we were small children, and her mother had become like a second one to me. She had talked with me through various situations and catastrophes, so I was eager to hear her voice on the other line. ...It went to voicemail. I'm sure that voicemail was about as incoherent as all the others I left throughout that week. "Hi, Tara. Sooo give me a call when you get this. I'm getting ready to board a plane in a bit. If you call while I'm on the plane, I won't pick up. But I'll call back when I can." At least, that's what I was aiming for in the message. Who knows what I actually said. I hung up the phone and sat defeated in that stiff, black chair. What was I even doing? This was a lot of work for something I wasn't even sure would help. For something I wasn't sure I wanted.

However, as I sat there, I thought of all those phone calls I had already made. I thought of all of the people who knew me and knew what I was doing, and yet they still loved me. I thought of the people who would be heartbroken if something happened to me. As I sat there and wondered what I was doing, I realized that if I couldn't do this for myself, I could do it for all of them. I never wanted to hurt anyone and this experience would only be for a moment. Eventually, I would get out and I could live my life again. But this short experience would save my loved ones lots of heartache and pain. So I knew it would be okay. No matter how long or hard my stay would be, it would be worth it. No matter how terrible I felt or how much I hurt, I knew that this was something I could do to make up for all of the stress I'd been placing on others' lives. If I gave up here, all of those phone calls would be for nothing. So for that moment that was all I could hang onto. I could hold onto the thought that this would get better. That I would be doing something not only for me but for everyone who was a part of my life.

Hope House

Finally more psych ward synopsis...

I woke up on Thursday morning (D-Day) to the sound of Ingrid singing softly. I was slightly disoriented as I rolled over to turn off my alarm. I looked around me and saw packed bags and empty walls. Where am I? Slowly, it was all coming back together and I remembered what was happening that day. In just a few short hours, I would be getting in a car to fly to California where I would be checking into a psych ward for an indeterminable number of days. It was all surreal and I still couldn't believe I was leaving for (what I thought would be) an entire month. As I was getting some last-minute things together (AKA throwing a box full of tampons into my suitcase because I totally forgot about hormones), my roommate, Natalie, was heading out the door. We had a quick goodbye and hug. I was immediately overwhelmed with the number of goodbyes I would be saying that day.

I was still adding last minute toiletries to my bag(s) when my phone began to ring. I knew it was JanaLe. My heart stopped for a second. This was that next moment. This was me taking the next step towards my new life. I was leaving behind my old, sorry life in Provo and hitting that stupid, red reset button (don't you sometimes wish there actually was a little, red reset button?). I stood up and something wet landed on my foot. It was a teardrop. I didn't even realize that I was crying. My roommates each grabbed a bag and I grabbed my blanket and purse. We walked out to Jan's car in complete silence. There she was, sitting in my parking garage, with a plastered-on smile across her face. I turned to my roommates and tried desperately to convey every emotion inside. Instead, it was just tears. Lots of tears. I said my goodbyes and parted with my last words of wisdom: "Make good choices. Write me. Call me. I love you. Listen to Ingrid. Be friends with Emily. Don't have sex. I will miss you. We do hard things." My roommates laughed while I listed off my last-minute advice. I couldn't help but laugh, too. Bekah suddenly started whispering my current favorite song- Ingrid Michaelson's "I am a Lady in Spain". The three of us laughed as we emotionally sang my favorite lines, a hobby that will never get old. Despite the laughter and smiles, tears continued to fall uncontrollably down my cheeks. I quickly gave each of them another embrace goodbye.

With that, I slid into Janale's car. I sobbed and she reached her arm around my shoulders. "Okay, Rach. I need gas so let's do that... and then we can go to Starbucks, okay?" I nodded because words were not possible at that point. We pulled out of the garage and rain began to pour down on us. I laughed a little. Even the sky was crying. JanaLe turned on her favorite song and said, "I love rainy Thursdays". That's Jan for you. She knows how to make you smile and how to ease a tense situation. Before hopping on the freeway, we quickly stopped in at Starbucks. It's funny because had I not known otherwise, I would have thought it was just any other day. Me and Jan just driving around and eating food :) But, I knew the truth and it wasn't just any other day. We were on our way to the flight that would change my life forever. With hot chocolate in hand, we began the hour-long drive towards Salt Lake. 

Like I said, Janale has a way with people. She doesn't know it, but she can make anyone happy. She has this ability to express love in a way that is rare. Her smile is contagious. It was a little strange to be having such a serious conversation with her as we drove. When small-talk and favorite songs were no longer enough to fill the silence, she finally asked the question I was anticipating: So... what happened? It was a question I had been trying to prepare for, and yet there was still no answer. I don't know what happened. One moment I was okay and the next I felt as if I was in the depths of despair. I had no hope and no reason to live. We talked and talked about it over and over. It didn't feel real. I kept trying to internalize my situation by repeatedly stating the obvious: "I'm going to the loony bin. I am literally checking myself into a crazy house. What am I freaking doing, Janale??" She shut that up really quick. "Rachel, stop it. I won't let anyone talk like that about my friends, even if it's about yourself. You aren't going to the loony bin. You're going to a hope house. That's what it is. You're going somewhere to give you back your hope. One day, I would love to open my own so I can save amazing people like you. Zack (her BF, now husband) can do all the counseling, and I will provide the ice cream therapy." Jan has this theory- no situation is ever made worse by eating ice cream. You're happy? Here, try some ice cream. You just bombed a test? Here, you can have ice cream, too. You're checking into a psych ward? Here, a bucket-full of ice cream for you. 

No matter how silly Janale can sometimes be (in the best way), she was right. It wasn't the end of the world. No, I wasn't going to California for a vacation, but I was going to gain something very valuable: hope. I was going to take a second to re-learn how to breathe. I was going to live in a hope house. I was going to have a reason to live again. I was finally going to be happy.

The Roommates

I was nervously sitting in my room waiting for my roommate, Melissa, to come home from school. I don't know why I was scared to tell her that I was leaving because she knew about my depression already. She finally came in and noticed I hadn't gone to class and that I was basically just a hot mess. She sort of stood there and looked at me before saying anything. "Rachel, did you not have class?" I turned and took a deep breath. I proceeded to tell her what was happening and how I was probably going to be gone for the next month or so. A little shocked, she started to cry and just nodded her head. We talked and cried as she folded laundry. Melissa and I have this strange obsession with Haagen Das Dulce de Lece ice cream and we only allowed ourselves to eat one a month. She came in with her half-eaten container and said, "You need this more than I do." We cried and laughed and I rambled out as much advice as I could. Almost every night, the two of us would talk about our day and discuss any problems or irritations. I couldn't leave without giving her my two cents on anything and everything that could possibly arise during the next month or so.

After a while, our other roommate Bekah came home and I prepared myself for another emotional disclosure. As I often did, I walked into her room and snuggled up with her on her bed. "Bekah- Babe, I'm leaving. I might leave tonight, maybe tomorrow. I'm getting on a plane to California and I don't know when I'll be back. Probably not for at least a month..." Silence. I knew she was crying because I could feel her body tremble. Slowly she asked, "Rae-bae, where are you going? Is everything okay?" Deep breath. "Bekah, I don't know. I hope it will be. I'm... I'm going to go check into a psych ward. My life is sort of falling apart and I don't know what else to do." We lay on that bed for a long time just crying together. It had been a while since I had cried like that and once the tears started, it seemed impossible to stop. But unlike times before where I cried by myself in the privacy of my own room, we cried together.

***

Later that day as I walked into my room to begin packing, I noticed something strange on my desk. A bag of goldfish from my fourth roommate, Natalie, next to a bag of Lindor truffles (my favorite!), a pink flower, and a card from Bekah. I was touched at their thoughtfulness. I sat on my floor and tried to quickly compile pictures and mementos I knew I would want with me. My constant flow of tears refused to subside. Melissa walked into our room and walked over to her wall of pictures. On it were posters and pictures of special moments or people. She pulled a picture off the wall of the two of us and gave it to me. Tears streamed down her face as she said, "Rachel, take this with you. I want you to remember me when you're in there." My heart melted. She helped me get my pictures together as I continued to pack up my clothes.

While packing, someone knocked on my front door. A girl in my ward was stopping by (coincidentally) to drop a candy bar off to me. Embarrassed by my red, puffy cheeks, I shyly walked out to greet her. She immediately knew something was wrong and I proceeded to explain the situation. She hugged me and wished me luck. About a half an hour later, another friend of mine stopped by with a bag of cookies and said "I heard you're leaving, can I help you with anything?" I declined her offer, but was touched by how generous and thoughtful these people were being. It made leaving a little bit harder, but it also felt good to know that they were on my side.

***

After I finished packing, I was exhausted. As a last hurrah, my roommates and I decided to make a quick drive through Inn N Out. We drove and ate and laughed, and I forgot for a few moments that I was preparing to check into a psych ward. The thing about my amazing roommates is that despite my "craziness", they were exceptionally supportive of me and never made me feel stupid or worthless for checking in. They never looked down on me or treated me any differently. They loved me and supported me and just wanted me to be happy. It wasn't easy, but because of their support, it wasn't harder. As I've been reflecting on this experience along with many experiences since, I've come to realize how important it is to have people in your life. Everyone goes through periods of despair (some of them last longer than others!), but if we help each other out, it makes it so much easier. Sometimes people get stuck up and look down on others, but I've come to realize that it is because they just don't understand. We all struggle with something. None of us are perfect. We all have hard times and weaknesses; it's what makes us human. But when we embrace this concept and embrace help from others, we become so much stronger than we could have ever been on our own. One of the biggest lessons I learned in 2014 is that it is okay that I am not always okay. It's okay when I'm okay, but it is also okay when I am not okay. We aren't meant to be perfect, and that is perfectly okay. 

Make or Break

During my last post, I talked about how the decision to check into the psych ward came about. My dear friend, Allison, basically gave me no other choice (and for that, I am grateful). What I didn't talk about were the long hours after that conversation where I was in complete and utter desperation. I didn't mention how many phone calls I made that day or the number of people who reached out and made a difference. As I wrapped my brain around checking in, I wanted people to tell me that what I was doing was right. I didn't know how to make a decision at that point and I didn't trust my own brain. I needed people to reassure me and remind me why this was the right choice. I was completely turned around and lost. I felt insane. I felt like by checking into a psych ward, I would be making myself crazier than I already was. The thing about the psych ward was that I knew people would find out. I knew that no matter how hard I tried, gossip would bring my committal front and center and I knew that it would be a hot topic of discussion. The only other person I'd ever heard of checking in was this girl from high school. I remember when she disappeared from school, everyone started talking about her. I hadn't heard anything about her in months, but the second she checked in, all anyone ever talked about was this girl. I knew that once people figured out I was gone, they would start the rumor mill up. I was frightened that I wouldn't have control over what people thought about me (hilarious because we never have control over what people think about us!) and I feared that this would be the end of who I was. What I didn't realize was that I hadn't been that person in a long time and that by checking in, I would resemble myself more than I had in years. I didn't realize that had I not checked in, people would be talking about me in a much different way.

Up until this moment, not a lot of people knew that I struggled with depression. I kept it under-wraps because I didn't want people to know and I didn't want them to look at me differently. I was completely sucked into the shame and stigma, I was afraid. I was afraid to say something and I was afraid to reach out for help. I was afraid that people would think I was lazy, crazy, or dumb. I cared more about what other people thought of me than of what I thought of myself.

So as I mentally prepared for the journey of checking in, I was scared to finally admit that something was wrong. I was afraid that I was making the wrong decision and I didn't trust my thought processes. What if I'm not crazy? What if I was just making this all up and just needed to wake up from some twisted dream? What if I go and they never let me out? What if I die in there? I had no idea what to expect in the psych ward and I had no idea how long I would be gone. There was so much uncertainty with this decision... and uncertainty always seems to breed the anxiety-driven racing thoughts inside my brain.

Eventually, I reached out to more people. I called people on the phone for reassurance, I texted some to let them know what was going on, and I sat down in one-on-one conversations with friends. I cannot even tell you everyone I talked to. Most of the conversations I remember now are because other people have remembered them for me. It's a little disheartening to know that I can't remember large chunks of time in my day.

One person I reached out to was my high school english teacher. This woman is someone who I look up to and trust more than most. Over the years I have known her, she has never given me advice that had ulterior motives. I knew that by talking to her, I would receive intelligent advice that she believed would help me. She would listen to me and analyze what was going on. She wouldn't make a decision based on emotions, but based on what she logically thought would be best for me. I don't remember what we talked about exactly, but I do know that the conversation was a turning point in my day.  The conversation started with me quickly telling her what was happening (I have no idea if anything I said was recognizable English) and then me desperately asking her if she thought I was crazy. I was pacing back and forth, biting my nails, and pulling at my hair as she tried to calm me down. After talking with her, I knew that I needed to check in. I remember she told me that if I was concerned enough to call her, then it was probably because I needed to check myself in. She told me that she 1) loved me and 2) was concerned for me. She told me that no matter what I decided to do, she would be there for me. It was the push I needed. But it was a different kind of push than what others had been providing up until that point.

I look back on this conversation and admire her so much. She was probably a little nervous. Most people that I talked to were a little panicky. They worried that they would say the wrong thing or that I wouldn't get help fast enough. But she remained calm (at least from what I could tell) and she left it in my hands. She didn't try to take control from me, but she helped me to figure out where I needed to go. I needed to feel in control of the situation because I felt like everything was crumbling around me. I felt like my world was collapsing and I was desperately trying to hold onto a falling piece of wall.

Eventually, I made a mostly-solid decision. The next morning I was going to fly to Orange County when Allison would pick me up and take me to a psych ward. We didn't know which one, or what type of facility, but we were agreed on the checking in. Once the decision was made, I started texting people and telling them what was going on. I had promised to keep my high school teacher in the loop, so I sent her a quick and emotionally-disconnected text.

"I am flying to Orange County tomorrow. My parents have been told, my flight is bought, but the facility hasn't been decided yet."
"This is tough for you, I know. I appreciate your update. I've been thinking about you and you are so brave. Do you have someone meeting you when you fly in? Not sure if you will be able to text when you get to your destination. I'm here if you need me."
"I do have a friend meeting me and taking me to find a good place for me. I will hopefully be checked in by tomorrow night. I will be without a phone once I'm checked in, but hopefully I will have outside communication after a bit. This is hard, but I can do hard things. Thank you."
"I know you can do it. Have a safe trip. I am so very proud of you for helping the most important person in your life."

That's the key right there. There are so many times where I have dropped everything to help someone else. I've gone and picked up friends from the airport at 2:30 in the morning, I've helped friends study for tests during an already-crazy finals week, and I've stayed up late making cinnamon rolls before my friend's GRE exam. There was this one time where I didn't do an entire school project because I decided to drive around with a friend who was having a hard day. The thing is, I know I would do it all again if the choice was presented to me. Why is it, then, that it is so much harder for me to drop everything and take care of myself? Why is it that dropping everything to ensure that I am okay feels like I'm letting everyone else down? It's stupid. Yes, it's important to focus on others, but when it sacrifices your own sanity... it might not be worth it.

Sometimes, it's okay to take some time for you.

***

I'm grateful to the people who waited patiently as I slowly stomped out my own path. I'm grateful to the people who picked up the phone and listened to the irrational ramblings of my unhinged self. I'm especially grateful to all of the people who saw me in that state and yet continue to see me as I am now instead of how I was then.

That Moment of Weakness

It has taken me a while to really get into this whole blog thing. It's actually a lot harder than I imagined. Phrasing things in a way that is both honest and not "airing the dirty laundry" is a tricky balance, especially when this topic is filled with dirty laundry. This post in particular is difficult. I've tried writing it a thousand ways, but it never does it justice. I don't think I ever will be able to express it perfectly through words, but it's finally time for me to just do it.

I started to rip the band-aid off when I first posted about the psych ward. Yada yada- I am a crazy person. Except, I'm not. And somewhere, a part of me recognizes that I'm not. But another part of me still wants to recognize that I am a little bit crazy. We are all a little crazy in our own way, but my crazy is one that people can't quite understand until they have "walked a mile" so to speak. So as you read the rest of this post, try not to read this through your eyes. Read it though my eyes, because my experiences and thoughts won't make sense through the lenses of your own perspective.

***

Two nights before I checked into the psych ward, I had a psychotic episode. That's what they called it. Leading up to that night, I had been struggling with intense depression. After months of feeling invisible, worthless, tired, confused, and jumbled, I just couldn't take it any longer. I don't know what it was that night that set me off, but somewhere in the late, dark hours of Provo, I gave up. I stopped fighting the thoughts inside my head and gave in to them. I let them take control and I lost my ability to think rationally. I couldn't talk myself down or think my way through it in a normal, sane way. It wasn't the first night I felt like giving up, but this night was different. This night was the night where I no longer felt like I had a reason to stay.

There are only 2 reasons that I know of for checking into a psych ward: you are a danger to yourself or you are a danger to others. I have never been a danger to others. However, that night, I was a significant danger to myself. I had what they call "suicidal ideation", AKA the fascination with, obsessive thoughts over, and acting on suicidal tendencies. It's funny (in a 100% NOT funny way) because I can't really remember that night very clearly. I hoped that as I worked on these posts and wrote about it, more pieces of memory would come back. They never have. It's something that honestly changed my life forever, but it's all very fuzzy. I vented this frustration to my best friend's mom once and she looked at me silently for a moment before answering. In a quieter, more reserved voice that she saves for her most serious conversations, she looked me in the eye and said something I will never forget. "Rach, I think it's probably a good thing you can't remember that night. Our bodies are built to protect us. You will remember it if you need to." It's taken me a long time to accept that.

That night, the one where I went crazy, was the night that qualified me for the psych ward. I made decisions that I regret every day. That night, I made a very real attempt to take my own life. I don't have any other way to put it, I wish I did. I wish I had some sort of eloquent way to phrase it so it doesn't sound so... trivial. I wish there was a way to make it less ugly, less harsh. I haven't said those explicit words too often. I allude to it, but those exact words aren't frequently used. Maybe I'm ashamed of it or maybe because once I say it, there is no way to ever take it back. Maybe it's because we use those words in such a cavalier way that they have lost their meaning. I guess it just makes it feel less significant. I don't know. But it scares me enough to take an entire post to attempt to rationalize it... even though the whole point is that it wasn't rational. Suicide happens in the dark corners of our lives and is talked about in hushed tones. But just because it *usually* happens when no one is looking, it still happens. The old saying "if a tree falls in a forest..." doesn't apply here. We can't ignore it and pretend it isn't a thing. It's a thing. We have to start talking about it because if we don't, it will continue to happen. So, here is my story- the dark, ugly, harsh one (that I am desperately trying to make less dark, ugly, and harsh).

It was terrifying to wake up the next morning with a hazy recollection of what took place. It was even more terrifying to realize that I had almost made a decision that was irreversible. And even though I woke up and still had those thoughts pulling me down, I woke up. In doing so, I finally realized that I wanted those thoughts to go away. I realized that I couldn't keep living this way, because it wasn't really living. I realized that for the past few months, I had been walking around as if I had already died. It was in these early morning moments that I realized that I needed serious help and that this "phase" was not a phase. This phase was leading me down a path I wasn't ready to walk down. I knew that if I didn't do something, things would continue to get worse.

I was fortunate in all of this to have my amazing friend/role model/hero, Allison. Although I cannot remember what exactly I said to trigger the red flags, Allison recognized the warning signs in me. The morning after the psychotic break, she called me. We talked about what had happened and she presented me with two options. It's all pretty fuzzy still, but I do remember parts of this conversation. Allison has always been very good at helping me recognize my options. As a part of the depression, you often feel stuck and option-less. One way for me to feel less trapped is to recognize that I can still do whatever I want. I am not stuck. However, that morning was different. I was in a different situation with different, real problems going on. Allison knew that. So when she calmly relayed my options, it made sense that my options were limited this time. "I am worried. I worry because I live 10 1/2 hours away. If something happens, I can't get to you in time. It will be too late. I'm sorry, but Rachel, you really only have two options. You can drop out of school and come live with me, or you can drop out of school and check yourself in somewhere. Either way, it's time for you to take a break from school." Allison had been trying to get me to do either of those things for a while. She felt strongly that I needed to hit a reset button. But I was too proud to do it. This time was different though. I didn't fight the fact that I needed to leave school. She was right- if something happened, she would be too late. I did fight the psych ward every step of the way. I believe my exact response to the psych ward was "no no no no no no no no no no".

Obviously, my opinion of the psych ward changed as I continued to go throughout that day. It took a lot of serious conversations with many important people in my life for me to realize that I really did need professional help. Going and living with Allison would have been a good step in the right direction, but it would have been difficult. It would have put a lot of strain on many people's lives. And it would have been an unfair situation to put her family into. That ultimately was the reason that led me to check into a psych ward. I couldn't put that pressure on her. I couldnt force her to take on the dead shell that used to be me. I owed it to her, after everything she did for me, to take the bigger step. I owed it to her to get myself better. I owed it to her to not throw my life away after the countless hours she spent talking me out of the crazy.

Although I now know that I owed it to myself to get better, I didn't feel like I owed myself anything while I was stuck in the crazy. I felt so guilty and I felt like a burden on everyone around me. I needed Allison because I needed someone to owe (along with the many other reasons why I needed Allison. The list is never-ending). I needed a reason to check in. If not for me, then I could check in for her. In fact, there were multiple moments where I had to re-convince myself to check in by telling myself I was doing this for Allison. Even though it's my story, it's also kind of her story. She played such an intricate role in my journey, so you'll be reading a lot about her.

Anyway, that was kind of random. I want to tell my story. I want my voice to be heard, and not just behind closed doors. I want people to understand what my experience was actually like. When people hear those two magic words "psych ward", they immediately get these snap judgments of what happened. It was nothing like that. I was never dragged in with handcuffs or straight-jackets. Nobody forced medicine down my throat and no doctors attempted to cut out half my brain. I didn't get locked in a padded room with rubber lined floors or lose my ability to function. I was still me, but I was put into an environment designed to help me thrive. I was given an opportunity to reclaim myself and recharge my focus in life.

Unfortunately, in order to tell my story, I had to first tell this story- the one where I tried to kill myself. And maybe this post left more questions unanswered than answered, but I did the best I could while still preserving the private, personal nature of the events. I don't want to glorify my actions or have them exposed to the entire world. I don't want to ever see those words written on paper. But the truth is, it happened. In a moment of weakness, I made a choice. But the rest of my story isn't about moments of weakness. It's about bravery and courage. It's about friendships and overcoming the hard things.

It's about every step I took after that moment of weakness.

The Psych Ward: A Preface

I've thought a lot about how to start this blog. I've probably written and rewritten this post thirty times. I wanted it to be perfect. But, that's sort of the whole problem, isn't it? We have this idea of how everything in our lives should be, how we're supposed to act, and how we're supposed to think. The only problem is that real life happens and we aren't who we think we should be. One day we look in the mirror and we no longer recognize ourselves. We're different. It isn't a bad thing, but I think we sometimes lose sight of the bigger picture. We are alive. We have so much potential. It's with this potential that we become something. When we hit our rough patches, we face them and try to survive. That potential is tested and tried. As for us? We learn, we grow, and we become. Sometimes it takes hitting rock bottom to see it, though. That's what this blog is about- how I hit rock bottom and how it became the trajectory of my "new" life.

***

I'm getting ahead of myself.  For those of you who have never met me or don't know this very personal aspect of my life, these posts might be sort of a shock to you. Three years ago, I was a senior in high school and only a select group of people knew that I was going through some pretty heavy stuff. Quite honestly, I couldn't comprehend the full extent of it. It was all piling up and the storm was just preparing to touch down. Thanks to this thing called denial, I'm pretty sure most people around me would never have guessed the baggage that I was carrying. As time progressed and I moved on to bigger and better things, my baggage came along, too. It followed me from high school to college. But it grew exponentially as time passed. I turned a problem into a catastrophe by waiting and delaying help. Denial is a funny thing- you feel good while you're in it, but then you feel even worse than before because it's had time to fester inside.

I was extremely good at faking it. I could (and still can!) throw on a perfect smile despite my insides eating me alive. I can laugh and joke and push it aside when needed, which is why I was able to get so far into my life while struggling with an undetectable disorder. Except, there were cracks showing. Outbreaks of emotions, sudden periods of quiet, and rambling hysteria were all moments of distress when I couldn't control my emotional instability. Rather than the hormonal, PMS-stricken, bitchy teenage girl many of my friends and family saw me as, I was struggling with something much more serious and terrifying. For years I struggled with completely treatable mental disorders, but was too scared (and proud!) to say anything to anyone. I was afraid that people would no longer see me as this independent, smart, fun-loving girl full of potential. I feared that the second I reached out for help, I would become less than human. I was afraid of how everyone around me would view me, rather than fearing how I would one day see myself.

I wouldn't be here writing this, though, if I hadn't made the biggest, hardest, and also the best decision of my life. When I was 20 years old, I was struggling hard core with myself, my thoughts, and what I perceived to be my reality. What most people don't know about me is that I have Major Depressive Disorder (clinical depression), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and Bulimia Nervosa. Throughout all of that, I also struggled with an addiction to pills that helped to mask the chaos taking place inside my mind. It was taking over my life. I couldn't think clearly; I couldn't see the point of living. Over the course of my first two years in college, I had multiple periods of time where the thoughts in my mind got pretty dark and scary. During the first 6 months of my freshman year, it seemed like the world was against me and I could feel my life collapsing before my eyes. However, I somehow pulled out of that first real episode and thought "Okay, well that sucked. Good thing it's all over and I can move on from this". And for a while, I did. For the next 8-10 months, my life seemed to be smooth-sailing. I worked my butt off over the summer and loved every minute of it. I was pretty nervous about returning for my sophomore year of school because I feared my depression and twisted thoughts would return. Much to my relief, the year started off wonderfully and I felt myself thriving. Fast-forward to Christmas break and things started to crumble again. By the second week of January, I was back in my apartment starting my second semester and the dark, twisty thoughts were back along with a lot of suppressed anger, resentment, and guilt. I reached out for help, but I was spiraling out of control faster than I could receive the help I needed. I had let myself unravel too far and I needed serious professional help. On February 27, 2014, I checked myself into a psychiatric facility for five days to be treated with the help I needed.

Why does it all matter? I didn't know much about mental health and mental illness before these experiences. I grew up in the same media-skewed bubble as everyone else and didn't think it could ever happen to people I knew, let alone myself. I thought that once you were "crazy", there was no coming back. We joke and laugh about psych wards and mental illnesses like they're some distant freak show. NO. It is so real. People all around us struggle with it and we have no idea. This blog matters because it could save someone's life. You could be reading this while struggling with similar things or know someone struggling with similar things. We are afraid of the unknown. I know I was afraid of all of this before learning what it really means to be mentally ill. I wish I had found a blog like this when I was in the midst of it. I wish that I'd had a better understanding of what it means to be mentally ill before going through this. I wish people understood how it makes me cringe when they talk lightly of mental illness. Cracking jokes and adding to this hate-culture doesn't cause you to become immune to it. All it does is add to the stigma and push people further and further into the darkness. Seeking help for this real disease- in whatever capacity necessary- is neither weak nor shameful. It's actually one of the bravest things a person can do (I might be slightly biased). There is a HUGE stigma surrounding mental illness and the time is now for us to change the way we view it, talk about it, and treat it. We live in a country where we like to believe that everyone is treated fairly and equally. I hate to burst that naive bubble, but it's not happening. There is a group of people hurting from a treatable disease because they are afraid to get help. WHY DO WE DO THIS TO OURSELVES?? 25% of the adult population will suffer from a mental illness at one point in their lives. Why don't we get the conversation going and help people get the help they truly need? I'll tell you why: it's because of the stigmatized culture we have created. We might not have the power to change society on our own, but we can definitely change our own personal views. While one person's views might not seem like a big difference, one by one we can make a change.

***Disclaimer: This material is real and I do not plan on censoring anything because of the nature of this topic. There will be posts that may make you feel uneasy or cringe. I'm #sorrynotsorry. Don't read it if any if this offends you. This is what happened and I am tired of pretending that I am something I am not. With that said, the names, places, and events might be altered slightly to protect others' privacy. I am comfortable with who I am and what has happened, but others may not be and it is their right to feel so.

***

For more information about mental health and suicide prevention here are some resources that can get you started:

http://www.nami.org/     National Alliance for Mental Illnesses
http://bringchange2mind.org/       Bring Change 2 Mind
http://twloha.com/       To Write Love on Her Arms
http://www.afsp.org/   American Foundation for Suicide Prevention

IF YOU OR SOMEONE YOU LOVE ARE STRUGGLING WITH SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, PLEASE call this hotline and start on the healing road to recovery! 1-800-273-TALK (8255)