Alone in the Void

I’ve been sitting here staring at a blank page for what feels like forever, hoping the words would just appear - like magic. That somehow, everything I want to say would spill out in the right order and I wouldn’t have to wrestle with it. But magic isn’t real. And I’ve never been someone who half-asses the things I write. So here we go.

I’ve shared pieces of my mental health journey before. I’ve tried to be honest about the ups and downs, about what it means to live with the weight of it every single day. But there are still chapters I’ve kept hidden, afraid of what people might think, afraid of how raw it feels to say it out loud. The truth is, 1 in 20 American adults lives with a serious mental illness.

I am 1 in 20.

For most of my life - or at least what feels like it - I’ve been battling with the gremlin that lives in my brain. She isn’t much different from the version of me that everyone else sees. She laughs like me, she works like me, she even shows up in spaces the way I do. But when she makes a self-deprecating comment, I know she means it. She’s relentless. And this past January, she nearly won.

Tuesday, January 7th, 2025.

It started like any other day. I got up, went to work, did the things I always do. But inside, something felt scattered. I found myself zoning out in meetings, drifting away mid-conversation, even while I was teaching. I felt myself pulling back from the people I loved, both here and back home. At first, I didn’t think much of it. “Just another ‘off’ day”, I told myself. But on the drive home, the thoughts came. Dark ones.

“What if you just swerved into that tree?” 

“What if you drove into that pond?”

The thoughts were so loud I could hardly hear myself think. They weren’t whispers - they were commands. I knew I couldn’t trust myself to keep driving. So I pulled over into a Walmart parking lot, called a friend, and sat there for three hours. From 4:30 p.m. to 7:30 p.m., I sobbed, I spiraled, I thought about giving up. But her voice on the other end of the phone kept me tethered. She stayed with me until I was home safely.

Wednesday, January 8th, 2025.

I didn’t sleep that night. I showed up at work an hour early, desperate for distraction. I promised my friend I would tell someone I trusted about what was happening, and I did. What I didn’t know was that two of my colleagues had already noticed something was wrong. They had gone to our supervisor, unsure of what to do. That afternoon, I was pulled into an office and given an ultimatum: I could go willingly with people who cared about me, or they would call an ambulance.

I won’t lie - my first reaction was anger. I felt betrayed. These were people I trusted most, and here they were taking away the one thing I felt I still had control over: my choice. But deep down, I also knew I was losing control. So I agreed to go.

Intake.

The process was long and exhausting. I spent hours retelling my story, explaining my medical history, recounting the thoughts that had almost consumed me the day before. By the time they showed me to my room, it was nearly 11 p.m. I remember lying there that night feeling hollow - exhausted, furious, scared.

The week that followed.

Hospital days move slowly. People came and went within 48 hours, but I stayed. The nurses became my companions. One of them brought in a carved wooden puzzle, and we worked on it together each night during her shift. The others sat and watched movies with me so I didn’t feel so alone. I was angry at first, convinced that the people who claimed they cared about me had abandoned me, that they just wanted to push me off onto someone else. But over time, the edges of that anger softened. Through group sessions, one-on-one talks, and even the quiet moments alone, I began to see the truth I didn’t want to admit: I needed this.

I needed help.

And as hard as it was, I was getting it.

Release.

A week later, I was discharged. I went straight back to work the next day, clinging to the hope that “normal” would return quickly. But the truth is, healing isn’t linear. It isn’t a light switch you flip off and on. Recovery takes time. And sometimes it feels like two steps forward, one step back.

Now.

Eight months later, I am still a work in progress. I still have hard days. But I am here. I have coping strategies that keep me grounded. I have a therapist who knows me well enough to catch me when I start to slip. I have friends who show up for me, and people I interact with on the daily who remind me that vulnerability is not weakness…it’s strength.

I share this not because it’s easy, but because it’s important. Mental illness is real. It’s messy. It doesn’t always look like what people expect. And yet, it’s survivable.

If you need the reminder today: things get better. Maybe not immediately. Maybe not in the way you imagined. But the darkness does not last forever. There is light. And if you can’t see it right now, lean on the people who love you. Let them hold the light for you until you’re ready to carry it again.

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day - a day that really hits home for me and many people in my life. For the longest time I didn’t think that I was going to be alive long enough to see this part of my life - but I have. And to every single person who is reading this and wondering if there is someone who cares about you and would notice if you disappeared: I care, and I would. 

Everyday that you are alive is a miracle. Everyday you keep fighting is a day someone is thankful you are still here. I am proud of you and the strength you have shown. Keep fighting.