Oh, you’re a rich girl, huh?" the pediatrician said.
I had just spent more than 48 hours in the an emergency room, and more than a day in a restricted unit waiting to meet with a psychiatrist and pediatrician at Havenwyck Hospital in Auburn Hills, Michigan.
I could feel his piercing blue eyes judging me for where I grew up. His demeanor changed during my appointment, and his voice got snarky.
This wasn’t a surprise. I’ve always hated telling people where I’m from because of the stigma that lies under my city’s name. Grosse Pointe. Sometimes I’m disgusted with it, too. After all, coming from an affluent community, you’re supposed to have it all, the advantages and connections for a happy life, so why am I in a mental hospital?
I spent nearly a week there.
I always carry my depression
Depression is like my shadow, always there whether I see it or not. Lurking behind me, trying to get ahead of me. But I don't want to hide from it. I want to talk about the inadequacy of the mental health resources in this country.
Mental illness is a problem almost every home in America has to deal with. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, an estimated 49.5 percent of U.S. adolescents had any mental disorder.
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In today’s social media-driven society, we’re supposed to look, act and be a certain way. We are measured by how many "likes" we get on each post and how many followers we have. This builds pressure on adolescents; it makes it hard and embarrassing to admit you have a mental illness.
I’ve dealt with depression for more than four years. The more I hid it, the deeper it consumed me. No matter what I did, I never felt good enough.
I started hurting myself in seventh grade.
I never fit in with the popular girls. I felt like an outsider drowning in my own thoughts. Being bullied at a young age toppled my self esteem for years to come. The way my parents handled their divorce tore my family apart, leaving parts of me behind. The pressure of high school consumed me. I hated myself internally and externally. These emotions built up inside of me until I couldn’t take it any longer. Despite being on antidepressants for nearly six months, I had a breakdown and began to self-harm again.
I planned to take my own life.
Asking for help
I spoke to my family about how I felt, but by then, it was too late to handle the recurring waves of depression without help.
Before I knew it, I was admitted to the hospital, lying in my bed next to my roommate, only 13, and reportedly raped by her brother. Knowing this beautiful, young girl was hurt by someone she loved was devastating, yet she remained positive, and it was contagious.
Because I voluntarily walked into the hospital, the nurses assumed it wasn’t my first time. At 17, I was considered an older patient; the majority of the teenage girls I saw were 14.
Girls of all ages and backgrounds held in rooms with nothing but a TV and coloring pages, until we saw our psychiatrists for about 15 minutes a day. So we passed the time drawing or discussing our daily goals in group therapy.
It was like a puppy mill; new people everyday, rotating through — a temporary fix for a lasting problem.
In group therapy, I felt guilty for not having it as bad as some, realizing my life wasn’t so bad. Then kept telling myself: "I have a good life. Why do I feel this way?"
But that’s how depression works; weighing down on you until you fall.
I am open about my issue because reaching out for help is what finally helped me.
It’s only been a few weeks since I left the hospital. I can’t say I’m OK yet, but I’m working every day toward that, through daily exercise, medication and work. I remind myself of the positive things in life. What I’ve learned along my journey is too valuable to keep it all to myself: Life is worth living.
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