I checked myself into the emergency room in Berkeley six years ago today.

I’m glad I’m still here to share this.

I was required to stay in the psych ward for 72 hours. It was pure structure and routine: Wake up, breakfast, take meds, group, lunch, activity, free time, dinner, more meds, then lights out.

Exactly what I needed. I didn’t want to think anymore. I wanted someone to tell me what to do, when to do it, how to do it.

It also felt oddly like coming home. A majority of the nurses were Filipina and treated me like one of their own. They even snuck me coffee even though I wasn’t allowed caffeine!

The group therapy sessions were a little painful. It’s hard to be vulnerable around complete strangers, but it did make us feel closer together, and I still keep in touch with a few folks from that time in my life.

The experience wasn’t completely positive. I had a roommate undergoing electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) and she wasn’t always mentally present. Accidents and misunderstandings happened.

Another woman on ECT couldn’t remember meeting me and introduced herself to me every day.

At night, we could hear folks running and screaming from the more specialized psych ward next door.

As a society we’ve made great strides in mental healthcare, but there is still so much work to be done, across cultures, across socioeconomic statuses, etc.

I’m writing this not to alarm anyone, but hopefully to show that it does get better, although it requires work and vulnerability. And an intimacy with one’s self that can be terrifying at times.

Even if we don’t know each other, I see you and I hear you. You aren’t as alone as it may seem. There are people willing to fight with you and for you if you give them the chance.