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