How am I still here? Let me count the ways.

Ten: the number of classes I’ve dropped in my three years at Northwestern.

Ask anyone and they’ll tell you my instinct is to shrug off stress, laugh in the face of setback and find the joke in any situation.

I’ve found it easy to carve out the line between the person I want others to imagine I am and the shitstorm that’s brewing beneath the surface. It’s become second nature to convince people of what they want to hear: Yes, I’m fine. It’s not a big deal. I’m over it.

And in the midst of Mental Health Month, I’m not here to tell you to just let go today of the shit you’ve been tamping down for months, maybe years. Because I’d be lying to myself if I told you it was that easy to do, and if I told you writing this wasn’t one of the hardest fucking things I’ve done in a long time.

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Seven: the number of days a week my illness plays a part in my life.

My problems haven’t been defeated, and they’re for sure not over. I’d give a lot to be able to go just a day without being reminded of what I’ve been through: to not second guess every decision; to not have to actively work to compartmentalize my life so I’m not crippled by the day’s basic stresses; to remember that I should take my medication daily because I do deserve to be here and I do deserve to be happy.

But the point of writing this hasn’t been to ask for sympathy — I know all too well the feeling that this should be a problem that I fix independently, and that it felt like I was giving in by asking for help.

I guess my goal in recounting my story is to show those reading this that your feelings and doubts and all the other shittiness you’re feeling that make you feel like you’re going through this completely alone — it doesn’t have to be that way and it shouldn’t be that way. And just because mental illness is something that brews internally doesn’t mean it should stay that way.

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Four: The number of years I’ve been living in character.

It’s harrowing and heartbreaking to relive the shell of the girl I have been since the middle of high school.

Looking back it plays out like a black-and-white film, void of sound while the audience focuses on the visuals. A young happy go-lucky girl gradually deteriorates, maintaining her happy persona on the outside with drunken debauchery and elite college acceptances while she struggles with the unhappiness that’s eating her from the inside out. The sad girl draws deep into herself, optimistic when hope peeks through the cloudy days, but broken down when the storm returns and envelops her. She doesn’t understand why she can’t appreciate her friends and no longer care about her passions, and chides herself for making that one mistake two weeks ago and not getting invited to that birthday party.

She perfects her ability to make excuses, to wave off concern and pity. It’s just stress, she says. I’m so tired, I’ll meet up with you guys later, she texts.

She’s always been self-reliant — if change was going to happen, it would come from inside her and her only. She’s prepped a customary pep talk for herself: This is a phase. You’re being lazy and whiny. Snap out of it. Your grades are slipping, you’re on deadline for that article, your paper is due.

Paige — the girl who prided herself on strength and let her friends see her as a raging optimist who could always be relied on for a laugh — couldn’t even help herself.

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Two: the number of times I Googled in 2015 how many pills it would take to overdose on painkillers.

Pressure is a funny thing. As a journalist, I’m insistent on priding myself on thriving under it, in the face of an impending deadline and pushing a quick turnaround for a story. But the same pressure I once loved has also been my worst enemy, the reason for many bouts of panic attacks and repeated days of staying in bed and turning my phone on silent.

It’s caused me to pass on unique opportunities and miss out on social gatherings, because the effort can be too much. Just the idea of putting myself out there is debilitating. Being vulnerable is scary, especially when I was rubbed so raw that every regular activity was a test on weighing the pros and cons of exposing myself to others versus consequences of closing myself off for another day.

— — —

One: the friend that opened up to me with her own story and helped me find my footing.

I can’t put a number to the amount of regrets I have, things I wish I could take back or opportunities I’ve missed out on. But I know it took letting in one friend to help me get to where I am today.

With her help, I got my own help. I’ve pushed myself to not consider the days I spend in bed as disappointments, but each day I can get to class and don’t cancel a meeting as an accomplishment. It took months to build up the courage to reach out to others, but the reason I’m writing this article has a lot to do with her encouragement.

A year ago I didn’t share a word about my personal self to even my closest friends. But it took simply the patience and presence of a single person to get me to open up. It’s terrifying to take that step, but to me — just letting someone else glimpse my complicated, fucked up psyche — was the ultimate turning point in going on the mend.

And although I’m still that girl with that sunny disposition who feels like it’s her responsibility to make others happy, I’m not alone in my coping. Living with a mental illness, which by definition affects internal thinking, shouldn’t be a solo journey. It may take you years and hundreds of steps, but down the road you’ll see there’s someone there who is willing and wants to hold your hand and guide you through the shittiness.