Reflection 45: When “I’m Not Okay” Became My Reality

Trigger Warning: This post discusses heavy topics, including sexual assault and suicidal thoughts. Please read with care, and take whatever space you need—your well-being matters.

If you read my last post, you know that I didn’t always believe in therapy. I didn’t think I needed it. I didn’t think it was for me.

But what I didn’t share yet… is why.

Because the truth is, my passion for mental health didn’t come out of nowhere. It came from a place of deep pain, from not understanding what was happening to me, and from not realizing how far down I had gone.

Growing up, mental health wasn’t something I really understood. It wasn’t talked about in a real way. It was more of those side comments, those little jokes. “People who go to therapy are crazy.” “The cuckoo house.” Things you hear in movies, TV shows, conversations, nothing directly said to you, but enough that you start to believe it.

So I did.

I believed that if you needed help, something was really wrong with you. And I believed that could never be me.

But then life happened.

And to share this part, I’m going to be honest. I won’t use names. I’ll protect what needs to be protected. But I’m not going to soften the truth.

Because this is part of my story.

In high school, I was raped.

I said no… and it didn’t matter. And for a long time, I didn’t even call it that. I didn’t process it. I didn’t deal with it. I pushed it down and kept going, because that felt easier than facing it.

Then I got to college, and like a lot of college stories, there were parties, drinking, trying to figure out who I was. Somewhere in that, I was sexually assaulted again.

The hardest part? I don’t even remember it. I had to be told what happened.

And trying to process something you don’t remember—but know happened—is a different kind of pain.

At the time, I was in a relationship. That didn’t survive. And honestly… neither did I. Not in the way I had been before.

I was spiraling.

By the second semester of my freshman year, I had reached a point where I was suicidal. I didn’t want to be here anymore. And I don’t mean that lightly.

There were so many thoughts running through my mind, and I genuinely believed they were normal. I thought everyone felt this way. I thought everyone hated themselves sometimes.

But that’s not normal.

And if you are there right now, I need you to hear me clearly:

That is not okay. And you deserve help.

I didn’t know that at the time.

What I did know was that I had a plan. I had thought it through. I was sitting alone in my dorm room, ready to go through with it.

And then my phone rang.

It was a friend, completely drunk, needing a ride home.

And I said yes.

Looking back, I truly believe that was the Lord stepping in. Because out of all the times, all the people, all the moments, that call came exactly when it needed to.

I went. I picked them up. They had no idea what was going on with me. They were laughing, having fun, completely unaware that I had been sitting there, broken.

I dropped them off. I went back to my dorm.

And I didn’t go through with my plan.

The next day, I told someone, honestly, not in the healthiest way. I was upset, and I kind of threw it at them. But they took it seriously, and they reported it.

And I was furious.

I remember thinking, I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.

But suddenly, people were involved. I had to talk. I had to make safety plans. I had people sitting me down, confronting me, caring about me in ways I didn’t want at the time.

And one of those people, I can still picture it, sat there with tears in his eyes, talking to me, refusing to let me brush it off.

That moment stuck.

Not because it was easy, but because it was real.

That’s what led me to counseling.

That’s where the journey actually began.

I was diagnosed with depression. Anxiety. I learned I had panic attacks. I learned I shut down. I learned I had been carrying more than I ever acknowledged.

And slowly… I started to understand.

This is why mental health matters so much to me.

Because I know what it feels like to be at your lowest point and not even realize how serious it is.

I know what it feels like to be suicidal and think those thoughts are normal.

I know what it feels like to believe you’re alone.

And I also know what it feels like for God to meet you in that exact place.

For me, that looked like a random phone call. A pause. A moment to stop.

A moment that changed everything.

And even now, when things get heavy, I remind myself of something that kept me here:

People matter.
You matter.

I would think about the empty chair at Christmas. The missed birthdays. The people who would carry that loss.

And that was enough to keep me here when I couldn’t do it for myself.

Now, I’m not saying that’s the perfect mindset. I’m not saying that’s the “right” way to think.

But it was mine.

And it kept me alive long enough to find healing.

This post isn’t just to tell you my story.

It’s to tell you that if you are in that place, if you feel like no one understands, like it’s too much, like you’re too far gone…

You’re not.

You are important.
You are loved.
And your life matters more than you know.

Please reach out. Call someone. Talk to someone. Even if it feels uncomfortable. Even if it feels scary.

Because I promise you, staying here is worth it.

And you don’t have to do it alone.

If you’re struggling right now, please don’t carry it alone.

If you are in immediate danger or feel like you might hurt yourself, please call 911 right now.

You can also call or text 988 (Suicide & Crisis Lifeline) to talk to someone immediately, or chat online at https://988lifeline.org/
You don’t have to be at your worst to reach out—you’re allowed to not be okay.

Please consider reaching out to someone you trust too—a friend, a family member, or a counselor. You are worthy of being heard, supported, and cared for.

And if all you can do right now is whisper a prayer, that’s enough. God sees you, He is near to you, and you are not alone in this.