I laid in my bed. A bed that had become personified, an object that felt like an extra body part. Me without my bed felt like half of me. My friends and I had dubbed it my nest and I the raccoon. I would crawl into the lofted roost at all hours of the day, classes and homework and frat events be damned. This particular day was Thursday, April 11th. I had just gotten back from the cruise and I thought I could get everything back in order. I could pass my classes and turn in the weeks of missing work. I could read three whole books and meet with my professors and try once and for all to get my shit together. But there I was, in my nest once again. I had slept from 8 pm the previous night until 3pm Thursday afternoon, in an attempt the placate the unceasing fatigue I felt and hide away from everything that piled on top of me. I had only gotten up twice to eat bowls of cereal. Maybe, I thought, if I slept enough, maybe everything would fix itself. Maybe I would never have to leave and I would stay in the room, a fixture, no different than the desk below me or the wardrobe across from me.

By the time the afternoon rolled around and turned into evening, Kristen and Cecilia entered the room. By this point, neither were surprised at the sight they saw, a half girl-half forest creature with wild hair in days old clothes curled into a mound of blankets.

“Hey Megan, you said you were at least going to go to Women’s and Gender Studies today?”

“Can you come down? We wanna see you.”

“Megan, you said you were gonna work on it, but you really can’t stay in your bed anymore because you’re not doing your work.”

“Pleeeeeease come down.”

This was at least a weekly ritual, if not daily. Whether it was Cecilia or Kristen or Tyler, I was always being coaxed down in a child-dog-person fashion because I would not respond any other way. After months of this, I could see the toll it was taking on everybody. Between my irritable and defensive outbursts to my self-hatred fueled meltdowns to my apathetic nesting, my friends were trying desperately to not have to call my parents or the doctor because they knew how terrified I was. In hindsight, I realize my fear was of admitting to the people I care most deeply about, my parents, that I was very much not okay.

“Alright Megan, we’ll be back later.”

When Cecilia and Kristen left the room, I did what I was most comfortable doing: laying my head back down and sleeping. When they returned a short time later, though, they both sounded a little more serious in their tones. They looked at each other, obviously unsure of my impending reaction.

“We called Pat and told her that you wouldn’t get out of bed. She’s coming to get you.”

They braced for impact.

I knew that it was over, I had to surrender.

I have lived with depression and anxiety since eighth grade. The first time I can remember wanting to kill myself was when my parents took my iPad away while decorating the Christmas tree. Obviously, my angst compounded my mood, however it was far more intense than that of a typical tween.

Sophomore year I spent hours googling online tests to determine whether my symptoms matched that of any mood disorders. No matter how many “severe depression likely” responses I saw, I continued to take more, to research more, to read more and more and more about any and all related topics to depression and anxiety (a coping mechanism that I still haven’t grown out of).

By Junior year I realized I could not bear the burden silently anymore. I was staying awake for hours, bawling at my calculus 2 homework because every time I looked at the paper, I felt like I was reading hieroglyphs. However, I approached my parents looking for “anxiety help” because telling my queens that I was flawed felt like I was stabbing them in their hearts. I was sure that I would kill them, that they would feel guilty, and they’d never forgive themselves. The way my depression warped my mind to feel guilty about feelings they didn’t even have was spectacular.

They did not perish. Instead, Wendy and Pat took me to my doctor who recommended a therapist. I finally had a lifeline. I was finally open to an outsider and was diagnosed with Major Depression and Generalized Anxiety (capital letters needed). And despite the talking with her, I still began self harming. Superficial cuts, but cuts nonetheless. However, once summer approached and stress left, I stopped.

By Fall ’17, my semester started beautifully. I was president of Junior Civitan at my school and Deputy Governor for the district. I had a 4.0 gpa and was in the running to become Valedictorian. I was in a relationship with a person I thought was the hottest guy at school. I had large group of supportive friends who I loved (and still love) dearly. On the outside, I was the main character in my own personal high school movie and I could not fall off my pedestal. Obviously, as you can see from the patterns above, this was not the case. Between the responsibility of leading a large club, applying for colleges I had dreamt about since I was 10, driving three times a week to south campus to take Calculus 3, and maintaining my physical health, I cracked.

I used to joke that one day I would have a breakdown because I was so anal about my school work. My friends and I would laugh at my perfectionism and intensity, creating scenarios of how crazy future Megan would be. Beneath the laughter, though, I knew that it was true. I was flying too close to the sun. I was not sustainable.

The week before Thanksgiving break in my senior year, I was admitted to the emergency room. I told my therapist that I had held a bottle of painkillers in my hand and almost downed it, but decided against the plan at the last minute. This was (obviously) unsafe. In a dreamlike state, I entered the hospital, was stripped of my belongings, and given a room with a 24 hour safety attendant until a bed at a juvenile mental facility opened up. My parents both stood by my side the entire way, but I could tell that this was hurting them. Seeing their only child in a hospital bed because earlier in the week she was minutes away from attempting to kill herself.

I was transported in a police van to Holly Hill (Holy Hell), a mental health facility in Raleigh, where I spent four days without internet, sharp objects, or shoelaces. I will spare all the details because I could write a novel about that experience. I met some amazing people who I will keep in contact with forever. But I know now the horror that is the mental health care system (or lack thereof). I was released the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.

After my hospital stint, I was put on medication and was far more open with my parents. I still made all A’s and spent the next semester focusing on my health because of my lax schedule. I resigned from Junior Civitan, yet still became Co-Valedictorian. Despite all of my health issues, I still succeeded. I had conquered it! I was victorious! (lol nope)

I decided to go to UNC because it was close-ish to home, I knew a couple people from RCEC going (including my best friend, shoutout to the best roommate ever: Kristen Lynn Compton), and it was still academically challenging. I spent the first semester in a rigorous schedule of exercise, schoolwork, cooking meals, talking to my parents for an hour each night, and going to bed at 9:30. I took detailed notes in each class, studied pretty hard, hung out with new people, volunteered at the animal shelter, and finally made my first B. I was proud of myself. I also made my beautiful, talented, smart, amazing friends (Tyler, Cecilia, Scott, Kelly, etc.) and had an all around fantastic first semester. Nothing could go wrong.

Spring ’19 started off really well. I was in a new and exciting relationship, I was taking classes I was interested in, I finally found a group of friends I felt comfortable in, and I started rushing the best frat on campus (I may be biased, but the St. A’s fuckin’ rules). Everything was perfect, as it always seemed. However, in hindsight, I can tell now that something was off. There was a seed of apathy and anhedonia in the pit of my being. As the semester picked up, I began falling into old and dangerous habits. Staying up late, eating unhealthy meals very sparsely, putting off school assignments until the last minute. Obviously these symptoms sound like any other college student, and that is true. Each of my friends had similar patterns of sleeping, eating, and school work, as does the majority of the rest of campus. For me, though, this was indicative of a tidal wave that was about to hit.

By the start of the second quarter of the semester, something was very wrong. I had been thrown into a deep, unrelenting depression unlike any I had in the past. I reverted to self harming, except this time it was more frequent. I was missing classes and skipping assignments. I made a pretty bad decision regarding some homework that has bitten me in the ass (hey there, honor court). I was spiraling, uncontrollably. Moreover, I was lashing out at my friends and putting my full emotional weight onto my partner. My friends, though, did not turn away, but supported me fully. After two days without leaving my bed, they pushed me to go to CAPS (campus psych services). I found a therapist and was put on a new medication. I could do this.

I could not do this. I continued to spiral. I missed more classes. I missed more assignments. I failed more exams. I lashed out more to my friends. I relied more on my relationship for happiness. I was getting more and more ill as the days progressed. I was at rock bottom.

Finally, before the cruise, I made a last ditch attempt to save myself. I talked to my therapist who told me to email my teachers and explain. Each and every professor was gracious, understanding, and willing to help. While on the cruise, I worked on past assignments, mainly reading missed books. Admittedly, I didn’t get as much done as I had hoped, but I was still refreshed afterwards. Hopeful.

Once I stepped foot back into my room, I knew, deep down, that I was doomed. The seed in my stomach that had turned into a lead tree returned at full force. My room felt cursed. I tried so hard that week. I really did. But I fell victim to it once again. And back into my bed I crawled, depression hanging over me like a heavy wet blanket. I was suffocated.

Kristen and Cecilia and Tyler could not handle it any longer. The Moms were called in. I went home that night, apathetic and placid. I knew not what was in front of me, but I knew that I had a decision to make. The next morning, after Mommy had driven up from Georgia the night previous and we all had time to sleep, I was sat down and told that I should withdrawal. I had thought about it so many times before, but it was still so hard to hear. Had everyone given up hope in me? At the same time, I was thinking of my friends. How, if I withdrew, there would be no more nights in 411 taking quizzes and singing to Hamilton. No more Bojack Horseman or chess or squeezing four bodies on the futon to work silently side by side. I would be alone, in my house, with myself.

I couldn’t do that, I decided. I promised my parents, that if I hadn’t made up all of the work that I’d missed by the end of the weekend, that I would withdrawal. I needed one more chance. I pleaded for them to drive me back so that I could prove that I could beat my illness into submission and wouldn’t miss out on time with my best friends. They reluctantly agreed. These beautiful women gave me one more chance. I hopped in the car and Mom-mom drove me that Friday to return in time for class. It was a race to get there and I made it only a couple minutes late. While in class, I got a text from my partner that read

“Tonight, after the concert, we need to talk.”

With those words, the straw fluttered down from the sky and the camel collapsed. I knew I couldn’t do it. I was crushed. I got up from my seat with 15 minutes left in class, walked out the door, texted my mom, and had her turn around. Do not get it twisted, this was not the fault of my partner, nor even the cause of my grief. It just happened that this event was the one that showed me that I, in fact, could not continue. I needed to stop everything and reevaluate.

Since I have been back in Salisbury, I feel worlds better than before. It isn’t 100%, but I think its as close as I’ve been to 100 in a long time. I’ve watched almost every marvel movie, exercised almost every day, eaten healthy, gotten a normal amount of sleep, taken my medicine. I got house plants and rearranged my room and convinced my mom to start composting and started journalling. I am finally finding a healthy routine that works for me and am starting a job with Mom-mom next week. I am continuing therapy and am planning to return to school in the fall. I feel well.

On that horrific Friday, I made a decision. I had ruined my best relationship, was failing two classes, was in trouble for plagiarism within the college, and had a moment of life that seemed, in all, like a flaming pile of garbage. But, in the midst of all of that, I decided that my life was worth living. And I could only live that life if I attacked every problem head on and in the moment. And that, no matter what happens, I must keep going onward and through. Because I literally will not survive if I go any other way. And the thing I want, more than anything else, is to be alive.

tl;dr I have depression, fucked up a lot, but am doing a lot better, now

P.S. This isn’t posted to garner sympathy. I just really need to tell everyone my full story. Maybe it could start a conversation about mental health with my older friends from generations where it’s hush hush. Maybe I could help someone who relates to my issues. Social Media (we love her) tends to award glossing over personal struggles in favor of personal successes and pretty images. I just want people to know the whole truth, my whole truth.

P.P.S. Also shoutout to Wendy and Pat for being LITERALLY the best parents in the whole world, who do so much. Kristen and Cecilia and Tyler for keeping me going and calling in the big guns and never abandoning me. Aunt Becky and Alaina for being non-judgmental venting machines who I can tell anything to. And Genny Guzman for being, by far, the coolest, most understanding, kindest baba in the goddamn universe.