It’s so hard to talk about mental health.

It begins when you first think about it. Do I really need help? Maybe it’s just a phase. Maybe I’ll wake up and feel better tomorrow. I’m just overreacting. I’ll feel stupid about even thinking about this tomorrow.

Then every day passes and it doesn’t get better. Your heart physically hurts and you’re just on the verge of crying everywhere you go. You either can’t eat or you eat a lot. You can’t sleep. You get panic attacks and you can’t breathe. You can’t face your loved ones without feeling like you’re gonna break down. 

You just can’t get out. Everything is relative, it was so painful, even though you knew deep down it shouldn’t be, that you had no right to be hurting when there are others out there who are experiencing worse.

But it’s just so dark. So fucking damn dark.

So you pick up the phone and you make that call, hoping it would help.

Your appointment date is here. You’re having second thoughts. You just want to head back home. 

Then you remember how bad it was again.

You enter the room. It was awkward. He asks why are you here. You cry. 

He teaches you breathing exercises because of the panic attacks. He makes you lie down to practise. The more you do it the harder it is to breathe. He says sorry. 

He gives you antidepressants and sleeping pills. You’re hesitant. What if you become dependent? What if you change? But he says it will help. You decide to trust him.

It’s day 7 today, halfway through. And how do I feel?

I guess better.

I don’t feel like dying anymore. Maybe it’s time too. Who knows?

Maybe I’ll check back in on my second appointment.