Statistics used to scare the s*** out of me. When I was diagnosed with severe depression in high school and subsequently prescribed medication, statistics are what my so-called friends referenced vehemently, determined to enlighten and frighten me with numbers, with “facts.”

“Did you know that 6 million Americans are on antidepressants?”

“Think of how many billions of dollars pharmaceutical companies make from selling you their drugs.”

And my favorite: “You don’t need pills to be happy.”

(Ironically, many of these statements came from the same kids who spent every lunch hour getting high in the parking lot and every weekend drinking their underage livers into oblivion.)

For years, I harbored a secret guilt about taking antidepressants, about “needing pills to feel okay,” and for years I went back and forth, confidently tossing the orange pill bottle in the trash one day, only to refill my prescription a few weeks later in a state of frantic and hopeless desperation. Taking a more “socially acceptable” cue from those around me, I also self-medicated with alcohol and drugs.

Then came the day I threw my prescription in the garbage “for good,” thinking I would never look back. But mental illness doesn’t really work that way. As I spent the next few years bouncing around the country, working odd jobs — often living out of my truck or tent — feeling excitedly yet frantically lost, I began to notice the growing gap between my emotional highs and lows.

I thought stability would settle my mind, so I moved to Grand Junction in 2011 to return to school and be close to my family. After a short time, though, my thoughts were shrouded once again by the dark cloak of depression. Things hit critical mass when my chaotic thinking made doing homework and other seemingly straightforward tasks nearly impossible, and I admit that the idea of suicide crossed my mind more than once.

September was National Suicide Prevention Month, and for the past 30 days, local and national media have been rife with stories about victims of suicide and the family members who survived them. So many of these tragic stories sought to answer the question, “What could we have done?”

One thing we can do as a society is to erase the stigmas associated with mental illness and the prescriptions used by millions to treat various psychiatric conditions. For those who truly need it, medication is not a crutch, an escape or an easy way out.

Two years ago, I decided to seek help again, to pull my life together and take care of myself once and for all. I’ve been back on medication since then, and I finally feel that I am living life as my true self: not merely surviving, but thriving. That’s not to say that it’s all as easy as taking a pill every morning, because it certainly is not. Self-awareness, vigilance and patience are crucial for anyone coping with mental illness.

You’ve got to take care of yourself, every day, whether that means exercising, avoiding alcohol, taking up new hobbies, spending time with loved ones, seeing a therapist, or taking medication, if you decide that’s what is right for you. Choosing medication doesn’t mean giving up or giving in. It doesn’t mean becoming another statistic. It means you are ready to look after yourself, and that is a powerful thing.

cblackme@mavs.coloradomesa.edu