Why I Decided to Check In

My life has been going pretty well for me lately. I moved to Chicago to be with my boyfriend, I got two jobs that I like well enough, I’m friends with a couple of my roommates, I had plans to go to grad school. Nothing was really going wrong except for my overwhelming student loans, but what millennial doesn’t have that? So why did I still feel like my life was falling apart? Because I wasn’t taking care of my mental health and it got out of control. My brain would convince me that the only way to handle my student loans was to kill myself. It’s not rational, I know. My brain would convince me that my life will always be in debt to student loans, that that is the only reason I will ever work and I will be selling my soul every day to pay them off with the pennies that I make. I was convinced that I would never find purpose, I would never have enough time or money to afford to live, I would never be happy. My brain was sick and it still is. I’m thinking more rationally as I write this, but in an hour that could change and I could be staring at a knife or a bottle of pills again. I need help. I need serious help. I need a mental hospital.

In a week (hopefully), I’ll be in a mental hospital. I have to wait a week for my mom to come get me to take me back home to Ohio. If you need immediate help, please don’t wait. Please go to a hospital now. If you truly believe you can keep yourself alive until you make the necessary arrangements, then okay. I only feel comfortable with it because I live with my boyfriend and my friend-roommates are aware of the situation. There is nothing more that I want right now than to just get help and to really start getting better.

I’m not really sure what it’s going to be like. All the information I’ve gathered about what it’s like inside is really just from It’s Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini—a fictional YA story might not be the best reference material, but at least it was based off of his time inside. Despite there being no real evidence, I’m nervous of the other patients. Part of my nervousness comes from social anxiety, but another part comes from the judgemental part of my brain that’s telling me, they’re crazy, so they must be dangerous. I’m not crazy and I’m going into a hospital, so I have to assume that they’re not crazy and therefore not dangerous. Besides, at what point is someone considered crazy? Stigma is an awful infection.

When I get out, I promise to give you an update.


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