I had no idea it was going to be this hard.
The days when I thought I could make it to college or get married had long since passed.
I was already married, with three children and was struggling to pay my bills.
I’d been living at home for more than a year, trying to put food on the table, help my mother and sister, who are single, raise their two teenage sons and make ends meet.
But I had to get a job to keep my family afloat, so I was struggling.
I had a bad case of depression.
My boyfriend was on the verge of getting fired and I was in the middle of trying to get him a job.
I didn’t have any savings, so that meant I was spending a lot of time with friends and drinking, which was just the start of my trouble.
I started taking antidepressants and I started to lose weight.
The doctors started giving me injections for my anxiety and I thought maybe I was dying, but then it hit me: Why?
What could I have been doing wrong?
I thought about going to a mental health center, but the only mental health facility I could afford was in New Jersey, so the next closest place was New York City.
I finally realized what I had done.
I took a job at the airport and had to wait in line for a few hours.
The wait for the flight was the worst I’d ever experienced.
I sat in a crowded airport waiting for hours for a flight that would take me home, only to have my anxiety worsen.
I couldn’t see my kids anymore.
I just couldn’t handle being in that plane, and it felt like a constant battle.
I spent days in the hospital, unable to eat or sleep because my anxiety had gotten so bad that it made me want to vomit.
I kept thinking about the suicide that I was about to commit.
And I kept wondering what would happen if I didn’ t do what I was told.
The doctor who treated me for my depression eventually called me in.
I said, “Okay, I’m going to go to a doctor.
I’m in no condition to take my medication.”
She looked at me and said, “…but we have to get you to see a psychiatrist.
The psychiatrist will see what the problem is.”
I said okay, but what if I can’t afford a psychiatrist?
She said I would have to pay for a psychiatrist, which meant that I’d have to go back to school for a year and take a two-year degree in counseling psychology.
She said that was my fault.
“That’s a great idea,” I said.
I wanted to go into counseling to learn more about how people think and act.
I thought the whole thing was just a bunch of bullshit.
I told her about how I had felt suicidal, about how this depression was going around, how it had made me hate myself.
She asked me, “So what are you going to do now?”
I said I was going back to college.
She was shocked.
“You have to do it.
You have to stay in school to go for a degree.
I can see how it would be a tough decision for you.
You’ll probably want to stay home for a little while longer.
What if your dad comes back?
What if you get fired?
What happens to your family?”
She said, ”That’s not the time.
I don’t want to do that.
What about your mother?
“”My mom doesn’t want me to go through this again.
“I thought, I have to find a way to keep going.
I think of all the people who have gone through this.
I went to therapy, but it was too late.
My anxiety got worse and worse.
When I got to the clinic, my counselor started telling me about all the ways my anxiety was affecting me and my family.
She told me about how when I was a little girl, I wanted so badly to be a doctor, to be the next one, and that when I got out of school, I was determined to make it big.
I tried to explain to her that I just needed help to get my life back on track, but she said, I think that’s the hardest thing to do.
I know what it feels like to have to live with that constant feeling of being under siege and not having anything to offer, and the way I was acting didn’t help.
She didn’t want that for me, and I couldn’ t stand to live like that anymore.
That’s when I decided to take action.
I called the mental health hotline and asked for a referral to a psychologist.
My mom said I had an appointment for the next day.
I walked into the room, and my therapist told me that I had been diagnosed with major depressive disorder.
I wasn’t in a lot the mental-health system was prepared for a diagnosis like this, but I had the resources to get help.
When the therapist said she was going in for