Each day felt endless, with no sense of forward motion, no belief that I would ever feel better. He prescribed an antidepressant, but after a few weeks on medication I was no better, and he suggested that I check myself in to a psychiatric hospital. I didn’t know anyone who had been in a psychiatric hospital, and feared the stigma attached to that. After cutting my wrists, I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. A scar on my throat, still visible, reminds me of that day and the dark time leading up to it.

Source: New York Times May 18, 2019 18:32 UTC