My struggle with mental illness started in elementary school when I was being bullied and continued to get worse into my college years. I thought I could handle my overpowering feelings and deep sadness on my own. Mental illness wasn’t discussed when I was in school, so I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I thought if I asked my parents for help, they would think I was crazy. When I started college, I hit rock bottom of my illness, and I still could not ask for help. I thought asking for help would make me a failure and weak.

I fought to rise above bullying, and I worked around my learning disability to go to college. I moved in with my grandparents and started at a two-year college. Even though I lived with my grandparents, I felt like I was entering the real world. I was supposed to be strong and independent. I was an adult so I should have been able to handle the feelings of despair, hopelessness, and worthlessness on my own. I overcome so much to be in college I should have been happy to be there.

I knew there was something wrong with me, but I was too afraid to ask for help. I was self-injuring and I hid my injuries from my grandparents and parents. When my mom noticed my injuries, I lied about them. I couldn’t ask for help because I was afraid it would mean I was failing at being an adult and taking responsibility for my life.

By not asking for help, I sunk deeper into my illness. I became suicidal and I injured on a regular basis. I couldn’t keep food down and I struggled to sleep at night. I thought my whole world was falling apart. I cried alone in my room while my grandparents watched TV downstairs. I planned my death and took a bottle of pills, but they only made me sick. My grandma thought I had a virus. I couldn’t tell her I was ill because I swallowed pills. She gave me orange juice and chicken soup. What would she have thought if I told her the truth? Would she have thought I was weak and helpless? Would I have broken my grandparents’ hearts?

When I was at the very bottom of my illness, I finally turned to my mom and confided in her. It took all the strength I could gather up to ask her for help. It wasn’t easy to tell my mom I was falling apart and just existing was agonizing. My mom moved me back home, she started looking for a therapist for me, and she showered me with love. It was then I realized I wasn’t weak, I was strong, and I wasn’t a failure. I was just sick.

There is strength in asking for help. I learned that the hard way. I suffered for a long time because of my misconceptions about asking for help. If I had turned to my mom sooner, I could have gotten help before my illness had gotten so bad. If I had asked for help when I started struggling with my illness in elementary school, I could have reached recovery and never had gotten to the point of self-injuring and planning my suicide.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help. There is strength in asking for help. It takes a lot of courage to admit you can’t fight this illness alone. Asking for help is part of the recovery process. Don’t try to fight mental illness alone; turn to someone you trust and tell him or her you are not okay.

I am a stronger person because I have asked for help. Without help I would never have gotten better. I asked for help in college and reached recovery. When I fell down that hole again years after college, I asked for help again. I started going to therapy and in time I once again reached recovery.

Because I asked for help, I still stand strong in the light of recovery.

What’s your experience with asking for help?

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