In October of 1999, I first began to notice something wasn’t right. I was in my junior year of college and while the past three years had really been great- lots of friends, involved in all kinds of activities, getting good grades, etc- suddenly life just didn’t seem so great anymore. Nothing had changed, I hadn’t just broken up with a boyfriend, I wasn’t stressing over classes, everyone in my life was healthy, but for some reason I was breaking into tears all the time and having these panic attacks that were coming out of nowhere. It got to the point that I didn’t want to even leave my dorm room since I was never sure when or where they would hit. They weren’t really the kind of panic attacks where you think you’re dying- they were more this sudden rapid heartbeat and wave of nausea. I just kept thinking it would go away- that I was stressed about some unknown thing.

But after a few weeks it was still happening and I felt like my mind was playing tricks on me. I’d be walking along the street and would envision myself falling in front of oncoming traffic. It got to the point that I couldn’t do anything without envisioning these sort of things. So I finally called the counseling center. After waiting a few weeks for an appointment I was told by the counselor that having suicidal thoughts was completely normal, but that she’d get me an appointment with the psychiatrist to get on meds if I felt that was necessary. I said I thought it was and scheduled an appointment for his next opening which was still a week away.

Each day after that just got worse. The temptation to just take matters into my own hands and get rid of the feelings just got stronger and stronger. I knew suicide was permanent and all I really wanted was to just go into a coma or something until the feelings went away, but since I couldn’t think of a way to do that, suicide seemed like the only choice. But before I did I called my mom. She came to get me and took me to our family doctor. He prescribed anti-depressants right away, but they took so long to take effect that I didn’t think I could make it. I decided to hospitalize myself and practically had to convince the doctor that saw me in the emergency room that I would commit suicide if he didn’t admit me. I know they wanted me to wait it out and see what they could do in outpatient first and give the medicine the chance to kick in. At that point though I couldn’t sleep or eat and couldn’t get the suicidal thoughts out of my head, even for a second.

Being hospitalized was one of the scariest things I ever did, but looking back on it now I believe it was really what I needed. I not only needed medication and a safe place, but I needed some intensive therapy, some ideas of ways to release some feelings, and I needed a chance to figure out what my next steps would be when I was released. I still use things they taught me there every day.

Since that fall I have had a few more episodes. I haven’t had to be hospitalized again, mostly because I now have some skills that help to keep me just enough in control and I’ve found my support system. I’ve changed meds each time I’ve had a bad episode, which I don’t know whether I really needed to or not, but for me once I’ve gone that down on a medication I don’t really trust it anymore and psychologically need to try a new one. But this last one I’ve been on for two years now with no problems.

I’m still wary of telling people I have depression. In part because of stigma and in part because I don’t want my diagnosis to own me. It’s a hard balancing act to think about what you’re feeling enough to know when you’re slipping, but not focus on your feelings so much that you let them control you.