I am not alone, because in my middle thirties I finally discovered it's ok to ask for help and that despite what my mind is telling me, people actually do care about me.
My saga with my mental illness( Depression, OCD, BPD) began when I was in ninth grade. i think that was after I had mono and my doctor asked me about depression and my family history. At that age I thought nothing of it and ignored how I felt for almost the next twenty years.
I never knew that any of my thoughts and feeling were not normal. It wasn't until after a few manic trips to australia a few times and countless other behaviors that were irrational one might have thought I would of had a clue. I didn't. It wasn't until I woke up every day and ended up standing on a cliff everyday for three months that I finally realized that my feelings weren't normal. That was in 2008. I was hospitalized then and again in 2010 and 2011 for suicide attempts.
My doctor the same one that I saw way back in 9th grade was an amazing help and never gave up on me. The doctors in the adult mental health unit were amazing.
I'm living in an house now. I have a therapist and a social worker and medication that works. I take part in therapy and a DBT group and I have friends that allow me to get some dog therapy time in. Pets are so important for my therapy.
I've also learned that my willingness to be open about mental illness has allowed other people I know talk to me and discuss how they feel and that they too can get help for depression.
In summary, I'm trying to rebuild my life one day at a time and trying to remember that it's ok to ask for help and that my illness/s don't define me.