Mental illness is a subject that has only recently come under the societal light with a positive connotation. Until current, people suffered in silence because of the raging negative stigmas that clouded the topic like a tropical thunderstorm of gloom. That is why it was terrifying for me to voluntarily be admitted to a mental facility in my first semester at a new college. I, now, am a proudly diagnosed bipolar woman and proclaim that yes, I go to therapy. However, then I was under the diagnosis of major depressive disorder and it felt like the world was a constant top spinning slowly but caving into itself at the same time. My mind was on a constant loop of hating myself, and the body that God created me in. Quoting the musical Next to Normal, “Do you know what it's like to die alive”? In an effort to be less ashamed myself and my body now, I will admit that in that period leading up to the admission I did self-inflict injury. My legs were an outlet that I found pleasure in. They were the way I reminded myself that I was alive, and that feeling something other than screaming agony existed. Under the guidance of the school counselor, and my own mother, who I had been contacting throughout my breakdown I finally concluded that it was the best decision to go to the hospital and admit myself to a mental facility. The ride to the hospital with my father was tense and silent. At the hospital, I had to constantly answer the same questions over and over again like a record caught on repeat. That yes, I am admitting myself for being suicidal. That no I do not have a plan. My favorite question was uttered from my own lips on the other hand. May I go to the bathroom. Being admitted under suicidal intention immediately placed you under suicidal watch from a security guard until you were transferred to a facility. In return, I could not go to the bathroom without permission and with the door slightly ajar for my own safety. In the hospital, blood was taken, and after being assaulted with a barrage of questions and a psychiatrist I was loaded into an ambulance headed toward my very own home for the next 3 days. The ride itself lasted an hour and a half, and it was night by the time that I arrived at the ward. Accompanied by my father, who had driven behind the ambulance, I entered and was placed in a room where I had to fill out a multitude of paperwork and have my picture taken. This picture was to identify me and my records, and to this day I detest the tears and snot that were running down my face in that photo. Furthermore, I was then placed in a room and given supplies and instructions for the next day. I tossed and turned that night, and when the sun rose, I was scared. During the night the staff routinely checked on us, our blood pressure checked at 5 in the morning, and awake at 6:30 sharp. I started the next day with a group meeting that outlines the expectations of the day and the morning staff. After that, we were directed into a line where we followed a staff member through locked doors to a breakfast Hall. The food tasted as all food from the hospital tasted. Canned. After that, we were escorted back to our section of the facility and allowed to mill about till group therapy in the nest hour. At this time, I introduced to the people who were in the same section that I was. Many were extremely friendly and much older than I am now at 19. There was only one incident with this group of people, however, it was quickly relieved. Soon began group therapy. The therapists who lead these three times a day therapy session rotated in between helping doctors and nurse practitioners check us over. They were all very friendly and mainly helped me to focus on positive coping mechanisms to deal with the cascade of ill thoughts and intentions. To me, it also felt slightly claustrophobic but securing as the ward was locked down 24/7 and we were not allowed our own cellular devices. This continued for the rest of the day, with more sessions and activities jammed in between. The cycle of activity was recycled for the next three days until the doctors deemed me to be fit for release, and I was sent off into the real world again. But I am not writing this to tell my own sob story. I am not writing this for attention, but for educational purposes. To inform some form of audience, even an audience of one judge, that yes people suffer but they are still human. Every person on the planet has gone through their own trials, and it is ok to need a little help from time to time, whether from a friend or from a mental facility. That they should not be deemed “crazy” or “phsyco” for their struggles. Hello, my name is Katelyn Stamatellos, I am a 19-year-old college student, who goes to therapy because she is diagnosed with bipolar.