I was depressed and suicidal. Here’s what helped and what didn’t.

I was diagnosed with depression while in college more than 15 years ago. I didn’t tell many people, and I felt embarrassed going to therapy, even though it helped greatly. I felt broken and weak.

The prejudice associated with mental illness kept me quiet for years until the depression got so bad I was suicidal. I started abusing my medication to numb the pain and escape the oppressive sadness and fatigue. I knew I needed help but feared asking. I wanted so badly to be a good mom and wife. To be the woman who had it all together, like some of my friends and family. I know now that’s a farce — nobody has it all together.  

When I finally worked up the courage, I told my husband just how bad my situation was and asked for help. Help turned out to be six weeks in a psychiatric hospital, which I welcomed. It saved me and made me a better person. But asking my kind and loving husband for help was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, even though I knew he’d understand.

Why is it so hard asking for help? It’s because of a major misunderstanding of mental health. People refuse to accept that it’s not a lack of willpower or not thinking positively; it’s an illness like any other. We don’t have control over it any more than we have control over the weather.

I still encounter comments like, “You need to think positively. You need fresh air and sunshine. You’ll be okay. At least this, at least that.” I could go on. While expressed with good intentions, these views don’t change the fact that I’m suffering from a very painful, physical disorder that affects me daily.