I began to live through countdowns. How many days until my mom and Kelly visit, how many days until Eric came, how many weeks until Thanksgiving, how many weeks until I can come home for good. I lived for the moment I got to cross off another day on my calender. Another day close to getting out of this hell I was experiencing.

I started planning my every moment to make the countdown go faster. I joined almost every club I could think of - college democrats, relay for life, going dancing with the old folks, and even became a coordinator for the Halloween event on campus. Most of the time it worked...but nothing kept the depression away forever.

One event that covered a pretty substantial amount of my countdown was a Master Class with a visiting choreographer. This four week program would take up a month of my countdown. Four Fridays. That's it. And then there will only be two more Fridays and ill be home.

I was reaching, I know.

At the first class, the guy told us about his broadway experience and how he got started. He told us all about the sacrifices he had made and the extensive hours he spent perfecting his skills. Then he told us about his first casting on broadway. Someone had gotten hurt and had to drop out and he took his place.

'Good thing because I would have missed a year out of my sons life to do the tour I was supposed to do.'

Uhhh, what?? You were going to leave your nine month old son for a year to be in a show?

'If you can see yourself doing anything else in your life, do that instead.'

Okay, done. I want to be a mom. I want to be a wife. I want to be able to have a baby when it's right for my family, not when some director tells me I can. I want to see my kids grow up. I don't want to be seperated from my husband for a year and perform every night. Lets be honest, I didn't love it that much. I didn't have that sole dedication to Musical Theater. Sure I was good at it. I've never really had to practice dance over and over again, or do voice exercises for hours like some people. It all came easily to me. The people around me aren't like that. They cannot see themselves doing anything but performing.

Well, I could. And why would I continue to go to Catholic if I could go to a better program at ASU? Why spend all of that money when in the long run, ASU would be better for me anyway. But I can't go to ASU. I was supposed to go away, supposed to do great things. The people that stayed at ASU failed somehow. They weren't able to branch out. They were settling for shitty ASU.

But all of a sudden, all I wanted to be was a Sun Devil.

Just three more months of Catholic. Three more months of this. What is three months in someone's life, really? Just an insignificant fraction. It will fly by quickly.

But it didn't. The days got longer, the lows worse, the fears greater, and the loneliness started to take over me. I just wanted a hug from my mom, a kiss from Eric, my dad saying everything was going to work out. I didn't want to have these heavy conversations over the phone anymore. Here I am deciding the next few years of my life but I can hardly get three hours of sleep at night.

Then suddenly, my countdown brought a glimmer of hope - one week until Kelly and my mom come to see me.

I didn't need medication. Not me. I'm not crazy. I'm not some insane girl who can't handle her problems without crazy meds.

But then again - I was scared. I was scared of my lows. I was scared of who I was during my episodes. I was scared of my thoughts - wanting to just go home, dropping out, just up and leaving. I was thinking irrationally because I was blinded by the depression. It had consumed my whole being and I didn't know what else to turn to.

So I sought out psychiatric medication. When I went to the health center I realized I had lost a significant amount of weight, which concerned me. What had I been eating? Well, nothing. I wasn't ever hungry. I didn't remember what I had for breakfast or if I had any at all. I had my daily coffee to help get me going but besides that, I didn't eat unless someone told me to. I was literally deteriorating - mentally and physically.

After a long evaluation, the doctor realized that I had waited too long. 'Why hadn't you come in sooner? Are you not aware of how long the medicine takes to work into your system?' 'No I'm sorry, I thought I could do it alone'. 'Well, you are suffering from a severe depression. I'm going to prescribe you Zoloft but please make someone aware of your condition because this won't kick in for about a month. Give it a few weeks'.

Are you shitting me?

'Well, what am I supposed to do until then? Just keep doing what I've been doing?' 'Basically, yes. Keep going to your counselor, keep trying to sleep, just take care of yourself. Exercise when you feel a low coming on, eat again, and remember to take your medication'.

Well thanks for that.

If anyone became solely dedicated to their health, it was me. I would exercise every single day...sometimes twice. I would run for miles just to get my mind off of things. I would lift, stretch, walk, and run for hours. I would practice ballet, tap, and all exercises I learned during class. I stayed outside. My dorm room became to stuffy and confining to me. It was a scary place. Too many tears were shed in there. I would go outside to do homework, but most of all, I went to the Basilica.

Catholic University is home to the biggest church in the United States. The Basilica of the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception became my little safe haven. When you walk in, you are automatically overwhelmed by the size. It is dizzying looking at the ceilings and murals painted everywhere. The walls are lined with shrines and candles devoted to the different appearances of Mary. You would normally find it completely empty if there was no Mass taking place. However, sometimes there were some stragglers...myself included. At the dawning of this darkest time in my depression, I never relied on my faith so much. Before I had left for Catholic, I got a tattoo in memory of my grandma. It says, 'I have kept the faith'. My grandmother was an incredible hero of mine, and she stood true to her faith through everything.

Sitting in the basilica most nights, I did not realize how special the tattoo would become. I could get through it. God doesn't give you anything you cannot handle...When life gets too hard to stand, kneel...all sorts of cliches were running through my head, but I found comfort in them.

I would often find myself just sitting there. Enjoying the emptiness and solitude of the giant shrine. There was something special about being alone in such a big place. Thousands of people come to visit it every year, but I had my own 'spot' in the shrine to Our Lady of Sorrows that no one else will ever have. When I had visited Catholic with my family in the summer, Kelly said it was her favorite shrine. So...at my loneliest of times, I would go in there and pray.

I would beg God for some sort of strength, some sort of way to get me through the next two months. Some sort of strategy for getting up every morning and to face the day ahead. Something to hold on to. I didn't care if my sobs echoed throughout the shrine. It was acceptable place to be emotional.

If anyone could help me at this point, it would have to be God. I would lean on him for the next few weeks.

The Basilica would become the hardest part of leaving for me. If I ever felt safe in my depression, it was within its giant walls.

Sleep. Something I had never taken for granted until my depression hit. On average, I would wake up about five times a night - abruptly awoken by tears. It was at this time in my depression that my health started to deteriorate. I could not sleep for the life of me. I dreaded the night. I would do anything I could to fall asleep. I even went to the pharmacy and got Melatonin gummies - a natural sleep aid. I would fall asleep quite easily, but staying asleep was the really monster. 

I have no idea what my dreams were or what my brain was thinking up in my sleep, but whatever it was was not pretty. Every time I would awaken, a flood of emotions would come over me. 2:23......3:47.......4:51......5:22......6:36.....7:24 - might as well just stay up now. At first, I was able to handle it. I would check the time and see if it was reasonable to talk to someone back at home. (Keep in mind Arizona time was three hours earlier). If so, I would text Eric or my mom and they would calm me down until I drifted off to sleep again. Then, it all started to worsen. My wake ups were more intense. I could not keep the lows away, and there is nothing lonelier than waking up at 4 in the morning without anyone to talk to. Nothing worse than not being able to calm yourself down enough to fall back asleep. Nothing worse that having to cry into a pillow so that your roommate doesn't wake up. 

Finally, I could not handle the nights alone. After the first few times I would wake up in the night, I needed to hear a friendly voice. It's terrifying being alone in the dark trying to run away from your own thoughts. I would call people. I would call Eric and cry even though it would wake him up, I would call my mom who would soothe me multiple times in the night. I would text my brother to see if he was still up. I was DESPERATE. Sleep is supposed to be a time of rejuvenation, not a time for total despair. 

Once the sun would rise, I would give up. I would do homework or study for something coming up later that day. Needless to say, my grades were never better than they were during this time. I filled my mornings with music scales, theology, and Plato's Republic. 

It was at this point where I realized that I needed help. I always thought this was something I could have gotten through alone, that it would eventually wear away, that time heals everything. Well, it does not. Not when you are sick. Not when your brain is not balanced. Time is not on your side if you are not fighting. Time is actually your worse enemy. 

One morning I remember crying so hard on the phone in the bathroom with my mom that once my suitemates had woken up one of them asked if we were okay. It hit me that I wasn't. I was not okay. Something was going on, and it was nothing to be ashamed of. 'I'm going through a hard time' became my go to explanation for everything. Finally I called the counseling center and made my first appointment. I began to fight back.

Walking into room 204 would never be the same again. I remember thinking that I shouldn't have gone home. Going home had made my depression go from mild to severe within the span of a week.

The first thing I did was shower. The shower was a dangerous place for me during my depression. There were three places I would go to when I was at my ultimate lows: the study bubble next to our room, the basilica, and the shower. When I would take a shower, I would just let it go. No one can hear me. Maybe they did and chose not to tell me, but in the moment I didn't think they could. I would cry hysterically. You can't feel the tears, and when you come out of the shower, others expect you to have red puffy eyes anyway. While in that shower, I had my first experience of a low.

What the hell had I done? Why they fuck was I here? I did not want to be here. I never did. I never wanted to go to Catholic but I didn't want to disappoint those around me. But guess what. Those people are not here now. Those people are not here to hold me when I'm hyperventilating. They're not here to calm me down and tell me everything is okay. They're gone. Just yesterday I was with them...taking a shower in my own shower at home. And now I'm here. In this shitty tan shower with this shower head that falls off and I'm wearing fucking flip flops. How much longer until I'm there again? Two months. Well two months ago I was in Disneyland and that seems like an eternity ago. What the hell am I doing. How am I going to get through this? All I want is to be somewhere else. All I want is to be home.

Lows are a scary thing. And this was just the beginning. I got out of the shower, wiped the mascara off my face, put on Eric's cowboy shirt on, and was flooded with memories.

Two summers ago I went to Girls State representing Seton. The night before I had gone, Eric gave me the cowboys shirt that he was wearing so I could wear it and feel comforted by it. Well, Eric never got the shirt back and I still wear it often. During my depression, I wore that shirt almost every night. There was something about knowing he had worn it that comforted me. I may not have done laundry consistently, but I made sure the cowboys shirt was washed.

I was also wearing the cowboys shirt on our trip to Disneyland two months before. The first night there, after the girls had gone to bed, I woke Eric up crying. My life at that point was consumed by the overwhelming countdown to moving. Well that night, my fear had bubbled up. I was crying and could not sleep. This was the first and only time I ever confessed to someone that I did not want to go to Catholic. I told him everything. How I went there hoping I would not get accepted into the program and once I had, feeling obligated to go. I told him I did not want to do Musical Theater but it was something I was very good at, so why not. That night we came to the conclusion - just stay a semester to make everyone happy.

Wearing that cowboys shirt made me feel safe. My promise was in that shirt. I could do it, but it wouldn't be easy. I climbed into bed and cried. Tomorrow was another day, starting at 8 with Music Theory.

I do not remember the day it all started. I didn't just wake up one day in the midst of a major depression. Every day would get a bit worse. A little less sleep, a little longer lows, a little more crying...depression is not something that just springs up on you. However, I do know one event that truly changed the game for me.

I wanted desperately to be able to see Eric around his birthday. I was missing him so much and birthdays have always been a fun time for us. Unfortunately, I was not able to come home the week of his actual birthday, so I went the following weekend.

Words cannot describe how excited I was to go home. All I wanted was to run into Eric's arms, drive home, and cuddle on the couch with Bandit while watching Dance Moms. After my last class, I started the voyage to BWI airport and eventually, Sky Harbor. This is when my fear of the metro started to develop. In order to get to the airport, I had to take the Red Line to a stop, get on the Green Line, and then take that to the end of the line. Then at THAT stop, I would have to find a bus that took me to BWI. Well, me growing up in the Valley, all I used to have to do was hop in my car and go straight to my destination. This was all so new and scary to me, and I was alone. There was no one to help guide me, no dad to keep me on time, and me getting there when I needed to be was the difference between going home or not.
Eventually, I got there, checked in, and was ready for my flight. I cannot describe how I felt on that plane. I was able to track the plane on my iPad and I sat for the five hours just watching the plane cross America until it hit Arizona. While descending, I started to feel the tears come. I could see the lights of the perfectly gridded streets, the cars driving along to 101, and finally, ASU Stadium. I was home. I had never felt so happy to see that damn mountain then right then. Because I knew in terminal 4, my parents, Kelly, and Eric were waiting for me. But...in 36 hours I would be back to leave again.

This thought consumed my whole trip.

I was trapped in the thought of leaving once again. Trapped in the thought of being alone. Trapped in planning goodbyes and trying to plan every single minute of being home.

I tried to see everyone I could - the Pfaffenbergers, my cousins, Mike and Steve, but still trying to spend time with my family all at the same time. I was extremely overwhelmed.

One experience overshadows all others for me while being at home. I had wanted to see Finding Nemo 3D so badly when I was home. Eric and I are huge Disney fans and there is no way I was seeing it without him! So, Eric, Kelly, Miranda, my mom, and I went to go see it. I could not enjoy it. All I could focus on was that this time tomorrow, he would be gone. I wouldn't be holding his hand. I wouldn't be in Arizona. I would be alone again. To ice my wonderful cake, we were sitting directly in front of a huge group of teenagers who thought seeing Finding Nemo was really social hour. They were ruining my day. They were ruining the few hours I had with my best friend. Finally towards the end of the movie, Eric stood up, turned around and yelled, 'can you guys just shut up for the last minute?! fuckin a!'

Well, that wasn't embarrassing. I lost it. I started sobbing in the middle of the San Tan Harkins. Everything was ruined and I was leaving in twelve hours. My whole trip was a ticking time bomb. Can you tell tensions were high?

I don't remember the rest of the trip. It was all an emotional blur. Uncontrollably sobbing in front of the Johnny Rockets at the San Tan mall, trying to fall asleep even though waking up would mean leaving, saying goodbye once again to the love of my life and family, and boarding the plane. I cried that whole plane ride. The poor woman next to me told me that whatever was going on, it would get better.

But she didn't know what I was fighting, and neither did I. No one knew that a major depression was starting to grow its roots into me and thriving off of my vulnerability. We saw signs, but we did not know how quickly it would consume my whole being. We thought I was overwhelmed, homesick, missing Eric. We never imagined it went so much deeper than that,

Maybe I should not have gone home. Maybe I should have stayed as far away from Gilbert as I could, but I didn't. For some reason, I felt as if I needed to be there. I knew it was where I belonged. But I had no idea I would be back in just a few weeks.

Are there ever moments in your life that you wish you could go back to? Are there ever moments that you wish you could erase? Do you have a block of your life that you wish you could completely take out? I do. My block starts on August 25, 2012. This was the day that my parents left after orientation at The Catholic University of America. I can remember everything about that morning. I had woken up early to go to the last family brunch provided by the school. I remember walking all the way to the library to the make shift tent that was set up. I remember sitting at the red table with my parent and eating a chicken sandwhich while doing everything I could to avoid the fact that I was not going to see them for months. I remember wanting to cry but trying to hold it all in. I remember hardly being able to talk because all I wanted to do was break down. I remember asking myself why I was so upset? How could I be so sad when this is what I chose? It was too late to turn back now. As we got up to throw away our lunch, I can vividly remember walking into a grass lawn in front of the Pryz to take a final picture with my parents. At this point, I could hardly breathe. I remember hugging my mom and dad, and finally losing it. I had made a mistake. I knew it. I absolutely knew that I did not want to be there, but there I was. As I walked away, I remember telling them to say 'hi' to Eric's family back home and to tell them that I loved them. Then I remember turning around and not letting myself look back. They packed their minivan and I kept walking. I did not care that I was crying. I could have cared less at that point. I just kept walking until I hit Reardon 204, the room I now called 'home',

If I could go back to any moment in my life, it would be this one. I would run back to the van and stop them. I would tell them not to leave and to take me with them. I would tell them everything.

But I didn't. And so begins my story.

After six months, I want to tell the world my story. After six months of hiding, secrecy, and a new name, I want to let everyone know what I have been through. If you want to know the truth, read on. Just beware that I am not holding anything back on this. I am not censoring anything. This is what I felt, what I went through, who I lost, and why I am who I am today. Some of you may hate me after this, some of you may look at me in a different way, but I do now care. I need to tell my story to heal. I need to tell it exactly as it happened, and hold nothing back. So read on if you'd like, I'll start from the beginning - August 25, 2012.