Real people. Real struggle. Real reasons to keep going.

My story begins in December 2024. I was diagnosed with chronic anxiety. I was prescribed a bottle of pills and was told they would help me. From the first day to around two and a half weeks in, I felt nothing. Then, one day, I noticed that the world seemed a little less colorful. I ignored it and continued taking my “miracle pills” for around a month.

I did not notice it at the time, but I became distant and quiet, and everything around me seemed so lifeless and still. I told myself it was better that way. For once in my teenage life, everything was quiet instead of bothersome.

One day, I came home during my junior year of high school and started crying. There was no reason to cry, but I could not help it. Suddenly, I realized: this is not how life should feel, and I cannot go on like this.

I went back to the pediatrician, and instead of clicking buttons on an iPad that asked me how I was feeling, I really answered. I took my time, and most importantly, I was honest. That was when I realized my diagnosis had been a misdiagnosis. Toward the end of my visit, my pediatrician diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder.

I stopped taking my anxiety medication right away and was not prescribed anything else. As time went on, everything started to feel normal again. I was anxious, but I began to enjoy what was going on around me.

From that day until July 20th, I did not notice it at the time, but I was not well. I was distracting myself by spending money, binge eating, or being with my girlfriend at the time.

That night, at around 3:30 a.m., I started to cry again. It was not a healthy, emotion-releasing cry, but a cry of dread that felt like a cry for help. It was a moment shared between me and the universe, nobody else.

That very night, I started to get into my own head. I subconsciously told myself, “I’m not good enough,” and “I’m not normal.” I had never felt so guilty, yet so helpless, when I began to consider suicide that night.

This continued for the following week in the same pattern, but every night felt closer to being my last.

The date was July 27th. Once again, it was around 3:30 in the morning when I went down to my basement, which was semi-finished and had furniture at the time, and just sat there on the couch.

For the first time, I told myself, “Tonight will be my last, no matter what.”

At that point, it was not just about feeling self-conscious about my weight or feeling insecure about my mental state. I was, in every sense of the word, delusional.

I began to spiral, and I remember that instead of thinking about what I needed to do to change and heal, I started projecting my shattered self-esteem onto those around me in my mind. I told myself, “I can’t believe my parents have to live knowing they have a son like me,” and “If I’m the example my little brother is going to follow, I have to do this.”

That broke me the most.

I loved, and still do love, my little brother more than anything in this world, but I was fully convinced that I was so horrible and such a terrible inconvenience to those around me that I didn’t just want to commit suicide, but that I had to. I was convinced that if he continued his life with me around, it would be ruined.

That night, I tried to overdose, and just in case that did not work, I was going to use a kitchen knife on my own throat. I eventually hesitated in panic and fear after realizing that the pills had already been swallowed and there was nothing I could do.

I desperately called 988 for some company. I told the woman operating the line about my thoughts, but I left out my actions. After I was completely transparent about how I felt, she reassured me that what I believed was not true.

She told me that if my parents genuinely wanted to give up on me, I would have been put up for adoption, abandoned, or blatantly told.

The one thing she said to me that stuck with me the most was, “Even if you don’t feel like you are deserving of any form of love, appreciation, or affection, believe me when I say, I love you.”

I sat there in shock at what I had just heard.

Someone I had only known for around nine minutes, who had only heard me cry and complain about my problems, had just told me that she loved me and cared about me.

I did not say goodbye, although I wish I had. Instead, I hung up the phone, went upstairs to bed, and lay there waiting to see if I would wake up the next day.

After waking up the next morning, her words rang in my head. I decided to call my mom and ask her to come pick me up from work and take me to the hospital.

I was admitted to the Strong Memorial Hospital inpatient psychiatric unit.

The first night, I was scared. I felt so alone and ashamed. I felt like I had ruined my life.

While I was there, unable to do anything but grow and learn, I felt the urge to better my life and move forward in a positive way. I had never felt so ready to start anything in my life.

I was released on August 1st, and from that day on, I knew I wanted to heal no matter what it took.

I started therapy right away. While I attended weekly, I did not feel a connection with my therapist. The conversations felt stale rather than meaningful. I decided to end therapy after around five weeks.

From then on, I learned more about myself than ever before.

I dedicated every day to becoming a better person. I worked toward eliminating my unhealthy habits, becoming more social, and improving myself.

Most importantly, I kept telling myself that I was good enough, even when I did not believe it. I repeated it day after day until, eventually, I did.

Now, as I write this in September of 2026, I have never felt more confident, more dedicated, or more worthy.

I am currently attending Monroe Community College as a freshman majoring in clinical psychology so that I can help people who were once in my shoes. I plan to obtain my Ph.D. and work in the same unit at Strong Memorial Hospital where I was admitted.

I have recently made an entire community of new friends, been recognized by all my professors for my academics, and plan to join the MCC tennis team, all because I made the decision to reach out.

I went from living on the verge of death for weeks and completely giving up to living the life I always imagined I would have.

So, all I ask is that you take this away from my story: choose to keep fighting, use the resources available to get help, and stay another day.

You are never alone during a mental health crisis. Sometimes, all it takes is taking the first step and beginning the first day of the rest of your life ready to move forward.

My mental health journey started to take shape the summer right before my senior year of high school. I was coming off a previous year of hanging out with my primary group of friends and another successful season of sports.

To start off my summer, I began training for my next and final season of swimming by joining a local club team. It took up every evening of my summer. For the rest of my days, if I didn’t have work, I would play video games with my friends, primarily a friend who I’ll call Q.

Q had been my friend for a few years, since eighth grade. We would hang out pretty frequently. Whether it was in or out of school, we would always find time to do something fun.

As senior year of high school began to approach, Q began to change the style of his humor with me. It was referred to as “ragebait.” This became the normal type of humor within the friend group. It was basically an excuse to say insulting things with the intention of making people angry. Subtle or obvious insults were masked under the label of ragebait, and I thought nothing of it at the time because, well, it was “ragebait.”

Over the course of the fall, this humor began to take shape. The jokes became more personal. Key parts of myself and my life began to become insults or “jokes.” My body shape, my family, and even little things like pronouncing certain words differently became targets. Everything I did, along with things I couldn’t control, was getting joked about. Still, I never thought much of it because it was “ragebait.”

As I was approaching the end of my final season of swimming, I began to grow feelings for a girl who I’ll call T. T was a rather new addition to the friend group. She was introduced by Q while the era of ragebait was still taking shape.

One day, I built up the courage to ask her out. In the end, I succeeded because it turned out she had feelings for me too. The relationship didn’t last very long, only about a month. After the honeymoon phase was over, and eventually the breakup happened, it changed quite a lot of things in my life.

No one would talk to me. Whenever I spoke to any of my friends, they would answer me and then immediately move on to something else. I wondered if I had done something wrong. What did I do? I had to have done something.

But I noticed that everyone would talk to T like nothing had happened. I was being singled out, and I had no idea why. Whenever I talked to other people in my classes, everything felt normal, but around my friends, something was off.

The week following the breakup, I found out some not-so-nice news that hurt me. I was shocked and frozen in thought for weeks. There were times when I would break down in my car, and even once in class. I couldn’t control my emotions. I just lost it.

Then, one day, for the first time in my life, I had a panic attack.

It happened in my car. I had the seat leaned all the way back. I was shaking uncontrollably, I lost feeling in my limbs, and I started crying uncontrollably. When I woke up, Dom was with me. I was told that I had passed out, and he told me to wait a little while before driving home because it was the end of the school day.

A couple of days went by. I skipped my last class of the day and went to my car, and the cycle repeated.

Every night after those panic attacks became scary. Thoughts of suicide began to appear in my dreams. It felt uncontrollable. I felt like I was a mistake, like I couldn’t do anything right. The ragebait never went away. Day by day, it became the only conversation I could even get involved in with my friends.

Every night became scarier than the last.

One night, I finally couldn’t hold back anymore.

It was just past midnight. I went to my basement, put in the code to a safe, and grabbed a weapon. I pressed my pointer finger down.

Nothing.

Just a click.

I paused for about ten minutes.

In that moment, I realized something. I had just been given the greatest second chance a person could ever ask for: the chance to continue living.

After my long pause, I got a text from my friend Andrew.

“Hey man, it’s been a while. I miss you. You should hop on the game.”

I don’t think I had ever cried more than I did in that moment.

I regrouped, went upstairs, and played PlayStation with Andrew, one of my best friends.

After that night, I changed completely.

I realized that I’m someone who deserves better. I left my friend group, went off on my own, and my two best friends, Andrew and Dom, followed along with me.

Once we created our foundation, my life had maybe the best turnaround it ever could have had. Once we graduated, the burden of having to see the people who brought me down simply went away. I could finally live my life the way I wanted to, with the people I wanted to be around.

This is only a summary of my story.

Now, I’m currently a student at Monroe Community College majoring in mechanical engineering, with the goal of eventually landing a job in weapons development. As far as life goes, things have changed quite a bit.

Now, I document my life in a journal. I write down highlights from my day, along with a quote to inspire myself and anyone else who might read it.

You are worth it. Don’t let yourself believe that you aren’t just because other people don’t make you feel like you are.

Not everyone deserves your attention.

It’s important to know how much you are worth and to do what is necessary to keep yourself moving forward.