Originally written by Jessica Rabaey on Unwritten
It’s been almost two years since I walked into a depression and anxiety treatment center. I vividly remember the car ride there with my parents ― they were both trying to be strong for me and reassure me it was the right place for me to be at the time. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact I had to be admitted to a treatment facility. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact I couldn’t beat the depression on my own as I had so many times before.
I recall being embarrassed about it. I dreaded telling anyone I was there. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for myself because all my friends my age were out enjoying the summer, while I was spending mine visiting with several doctors and nurses to figure out what the hell was wrong with me.
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