In October of 2022, my boyfriend called my parents to come and pick me up after one of the worst nights of my life. I was white-knuckling severe depression and manic episodes. I was always anxious and on edge, even when I felt my safest. My physical health had worsened and doctors had no idea how to help me. The unknown, quite literally, was killing me. I was always feeling alllll the things. Fear, sadness, excitement, uncertainty, doubt, insecurity, small portions of joy at a time, paranoia, you name it. I was sleeping, at best, 4 hours a night. It did get to a point where I felt suicidal, and my mother and step-dad rushed over to take me to the ER in Psychiatrics to get me on meds. I spent 20 minutes fighting tears, answering questions, admitting defeat. The nurse gave me a 50 milligram anti-anxiety pill and it helped. It helped me. It didn't heal me. I feel the need to emphasize the importance of the difference between those two things because if you expect a pill to heal the i...
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