On Sept. 30, 2024, a normal therapy session ended with me in the back of a police car on my way to the hospital.

At that time I was a freshman at Sonoma State University and I was going through a period of depression. This was not something new. I’ve had my fair share of depressive episodes, and for a while I was doing just fine.

But this time, someone reported me as a suicide risk.

May is Mental Health Awareness Month, there is no better time to destigmatize not just things like therapy, but intense mental health treatment–from meds to the psychiatric ward. I should know. I’ve been there, and I’m still here to talk about it.

My roommates and I had just gone thrifting when someone from the school’s housing department knocked on my door and asked to come with her.

We went back to her office and very calmly, she let me know that she heard that I expressed suicidal ideation with the phrase, “I’m going to kill myself.”

Suicide is the second leading cause of death of college students so it was no surprise this was taken seriously.

I wasn’t serious about suicide, not then or now. Unfortunately, I use that phrase very passively—in the heat of the moment. But instead of calmly explaining my faulty colloquial use, I broke down into tears. Oops.

In came a police officer and some mental health professionals to further question me. I knew if I didn’t clear this pickle up, I would be sent off to a hospital 8 hours away from home. They don’t bring in the police if they didn’t think my words held some weight. In other words, it was now or never.

After another two hours of interrogation, I was finally deemed not a threat to myself. Please hold your applause.

I avoided the hospital that day, but this incredibly stressful event triggered something else. I had what is officially called a dysphoric mania. A manic episode combined with a pre-existing depressive episode is known as a mixed state. For me that looked like erratic spells of sobbing, passive forms for self-harm combined with no sleep. In simple terms, I suddenly had become the thing I was convincing officials I wasn’t—suicidal and impulsive, not a mix you want.

Three days later I showed up at my regularly scheduled therapy session and alarm bells went off for my therapist. I was hysterically crying and when she asked me if I had a suicide plan, I couldn’t hold it back. She recognized the signs and 5150’d me.

A 5150 is a reference to the California code WIC 5150. This is when an individual is deemed a danger to themselves or others and therefore is put under an up-to 72-hour psychiatric hold.

Bright and early, I was put into the back of the police car with nothing but a sushi roll I had bought before my session and the clothes on my back.

The first thing they do is take you to the psychiatric ward of the emergency room. They give you a pair of scrubs to change into. Yes, that included a pair of grippy socks. You are assigned your very own security guard whose job is to watch your every move.

Up next is to pee in a cup to see if you have any drugs in your system. You don’t have the luxury of a closed door, just a curtain that they open the second you flush the toilet.

There wasn’t a room available, so I was stationed in the hallway. When the guy next to me punched a hole in the wall, I was promptly moved right up against the receptionist desk.

Since this was just the emergency department, I was allowed to have my phone–for better or for worse. Besides texting a handful of friends about my current situation, I passed the time by taking selfies or recording Tik Toks.

My parents flew from LAX to San Francisco, rented a car and made the hour-long trek to Sonoma County, bringing me In-N-Out.

At around two in the morning, EMTs had finally arrived to take me an hour south to a stabilization unit. While I wasn’t put in a straitjacket, I was strapped down to the stretcher, probably for safety.

My stay at the stabilization unit was short-lived because I was deemed enough of a danger to myself to warrant being moved to the psych ward of an actual hospital. I wasn’t showering or getting out of my pull-out sofa bed and I still had overwhelming self-harm thoughts. When the psychiatrist came in to see me, he plainly asked if I thought I should be moved. I said yes. A simple break from the world wasn’t enough, it was clear I needed medication.

I ended up at the adolescent ward, at the end of a locked hallway of the Santa Rosa Behavioral Hospital.

For the beginning of my stay, I was completely dissociated. Nothing or no one felt real. My first night marked one of the worst panic attacks of my life. It was time for bed but I wasn’t tired so I sat in my doorway and looked at the locked doors at the end of the hall. That’s when the panic set in.

I’ve always been claustrophobic but this was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. A primal panic began, I wanted to tear the door down with my bare hands just to feel the relief of the outside air. It got so bad I had to be sent to the “quiet room.” This was a windowless, empty room next to the nurses station that was used to destimulate patients.

I was hyperventilating on the floor when they handed me a small cup filled with two pills to calm me down. It wasn’t instant but eventually they brought me down enough to fall asleep.

At this point, my 5150 was coming to a close. To be honest, 72 hours didn’t seem like a long time. Three days to cool off and then you’re out, ready to take on the world. However, on what would have been my last night, Charlie, a fellow patient, bluntly told me, “You’re not getting out.” Sixteen hours later, in strolls my patient representative, who handed me a paper labeled 5250.

A 5250 is an up-to 14-day extension of the original 5150. This doesn’t mean they’ll keep you the whole two weeks, but they can if considered necessary.

What I learned from the other kids is that they basically always extend holds. For me, this was because they want to monitor my medication, but it could also be because someone is still expressing suicidal ideation, or because the child has nowhere to go.

This was debilitating to me. I wasn’t prepared to be gone for a whole week. I had to skip the afternoon group session because I was crying so hard.

But then I got some of the best advice I’ve ever heard, from 16-year-old Charlie. This fellow patient told me, “You’re already here, might as well get some help.” Boy, did I need to hear that.

Up until then, I was like a zombie sticking to the schedule they gave me. Wake up, make the bed, line up for breakfast, go to group, quiet time, meds, break room, repeat. I was physically going to these therapy sessions, but I wasn’t mentally there. Charlie was right; if I’m going to be here, I might as well take advantage of the resources.

After this I started journaling–with a crayon, of course, as pens weren’t allowed. I became an active participant in the group session, I became honest with my therapist, I started finishing my meals and I made some friends. I made the time pass by.

On Oct. 7, 2024, I was discharged from the hospital, but not empty handed. I came out with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder.

The National Institute of Mental Health defines bipolar disorder as a mental illness that causes clear shifts in a person’s mood, energy, activity levels, and concentration. Bipolarism can also come with periods of extremely “up,” elated, irritable, or energized behavior (known as manic episodes) and very “down,” sad, indifferent, or hopeless periods (known as depressive episodes).

This is in no way a shock–both of my parents are bipolar. It was frustrating, though, because I felt doomed from the womb. But at least I wasn’t alone. No one truly understands my struggles like my parents. Through this diagnosis, we have all gotten closer. I tell them whenever I’m feeling up or down, and they help me through it.

While not all mental health problems are due to genetics, in certain disorders such as bipolar, schizophrenia and addiction, your chances of developing it can be dramatically increased by family history.

According to research by Black Dog Institute, if one parent has bipolar disorder, there is a 10% chance for their child to develop this mental illness. If both parents have the disorder, the odds increase to 40%.

My parents have told me they feel guilty for my diagnosis. They know–first-hand–how crippling this disorder can be. They wanted something better for me. To their credit, they weren’t diagnosed when they had me so there was no way of knowing. But I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

It’s not just my parents that have helped me–it’s a ton of therapy.

Immediately after discharge, I was thrown into countless appointments with psychiatrists, therapists and eventually my case manager for my intensive outpatient program.

IOP took some getting used to but after a few weeks, I would look forward to attending. It was a safe space for me to air out my problems and learn how to take charge of my mental health.

My recovery was in no way linear. Shortly after coming home, I started having panic attacks at night. Not just any panic attacks, all-consuming ones that would go on for hours. I would become catatonic–unable to move or talk. My mouth would go dry and my heart would be beating so fast I thought I was having a heart attack.

This happened every night for months. It got so bad I could only sleep in my mom’s room with both of my parents present. The anxiety became my life. The suicidal thoughts came back because I couldn’t picture a life without suffering. There was even a time where I wanted to go back to the hospital even though that is where the panic came from.

Slowly over time it became manageable. While I would like to take all the credit, medication really changed the game for my anxiety. This particular beta-blocker didn’t take away that anxious feeling, it just stopped the physical symptoms. For example, I would shake uncontrollably every time I would try to lay down. But with my medication, it completely stopped.

I still sometimes feel like I’m flipping a coin every night but I’ve learned what my triggers are and how to best deal with it. Unfortunately, caffeine is a definite no-go which pains my Dr. Pepper addicted heart.

Another unfortunate side effect of my hospitalization was losing my community.

While I was in the hospital, my roommates moved out of our dorm at Sonoma State without leaving a note. I came home to an empty dorm. When I asked them about it, they said it was “to feel more at ease with the situation.” And it didn’t just end there.

One of my closest friends also stopped talking to me shortly after I came home to Southern California. Others had gotten used to me being up north, so I wasn’t a part of the friend group anymore. All but one of my friends from Sonoma completely ghosted me. I was crushed.

This is why it is so important to destigmatize mental health struggles. We need to talk about the real, ugly struggles that cannot be fixed by a good smoothie and some mood music. There are so many layers to mental health that are cast aside by the wider public because it’s not pretty or digestible.

These stigmas prevent real people from getting the help they need. My dad wasn’t diagnosed until his 40s because mental health wasn’t a discussion in his household.

So please, if you feel you need help for any reason, please ask for it. You are only one person; you can only handle so much. There is absolutely no shame in acknowledging that.

If you’re worried about the hospitalization experience, I completely understand. I get asked if I regret going to the hospital, and for a while, I did. If I never went, I wouldn’t have had to deal with the months of panic attacks, depression and isolation. Yet, if I never went, I would be dead. So no, I don’t regret it. In fact, I’m indebted to the team of doctors and nurses who saved me.

My testimony is not meant to scare anyone away. I promise you’re not going to be 5150’d because you told someone you’re feeling sad. I hope by publishing my account, people can understand that everyone struggles with something. Especially right now, we all need more empathy and compassion with one another. This world is a tough place, but we can achieve far more together than we could ever alone.

Below are a list of national and local mental health resources available:
National Suicide Hotline – 988
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration
Fullerton College Psychological Services – (714) 992-7093
Fullerton College Counseling Department – (714) 992-7084