It’s Okay to Ask for Help

 I know I’ve been MIA for a while.

To say that my mental health went on a downward spiral is fairly accurate.

At the beginning of August, I developed a debilitating migraine that lasted for 10 days. It led to two doctors’ appointments, an emergency room visit, and 10 days spent in bed — literally in bed. I slept most of the day. I did nothing. I didn’t care about doing anything. The darkest thoughts started taking over, and it was at that point that I realised I needed help. When I look back on a picture I took during this time, I don't even recognise myself.

A week later, I admitted myself to a mental health clinic, where I stayed for 21 days.

To say that it was one of the best decisions I have ever made would be an understatement. I am incredibly grateful for the time, the support, the people I met, and the process I went through.

I was incredibly nervous going in. The thought of sharing a room with complete strangers pushed my anxiety to its limits, but I was so low — the lowest I had been in years — and I knew that I had to do this. For myself, but also for the people I love.

The programme was incredible. In the beginning, I found some parts incredibly difficult. There were moments when I wanted to retreat into myself, and moments when facing certain things was uncomfortable and painful. But along the way, I met some of the most incredible people from all walks of life.

I had the most amazing roommates who somehow managed to make me laugh and brighten my day, even on the days when I didn't feel like smiling. I learned so much from the people around me, from the therapists, and from the programme itself. More importantly, I learned things about myself that I think I had been avoiding for a very long time.

One of the biggest things for me was finally allowing myself to go back on medication.
I had put it off for years. Somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that needing medication meant I had somehow failed, or that people would judge me for it. I don’t know why I allowed myself to carry that belief for so long.

The reality is that medication has changed my quality of life in ways I cannot fully explain.
My overall mood is better. My anxiety is more manageable. I sleep through the night and wake up feeling rested. For years, I was functioning on three or four hours of sleep a night — on a good day — and somehow convincing myself that this was normal.

It wasn't.

And I think that is one of the biggest lessons I have taken from all of this: sometimes surviving is not the same as living.

I spent a very long time believing that I just needed to push through, that I needed to be strong, that there were other people who needed me and I could deal with myself later.

But eventually, your mind and your body tell you that later has arrived.

So, I chose myself.

I chose to ask for help. I chose to step away from everything for a while. I chose to be vulnerable, even when it terrified me. And I chose to accept that taking care of my mental health is not selfish, weak or something I should be ashamed of.

I’m not going to pretend that everything is suddenly perfect. I’m still figuring things out. I still have difficult days, and I know this is a journey rather than a quick fix.

But I’m here.

I’m sleeping. I’m laughing. I’m functioning. I’m finding pieces of myself again.

And, perhaps most importantly, I’m learning that I don’t have to wait until I completely fall apart before I allow myself to ask for help.

If you’ve been struggling quietly, please know that asking for help doesn't make you weak. Sometimes, it is the bravest thing you can do.

I’m still finding my way back to myself.
But for the first time in a long time, I actually feel like I’m on my way.