I was sitting in the staff break room at the Star-Herald trying to keep it together. I had just sat down to eat my lunch, but wasn’t being successful. I was shaking. My heart was racing.

Up until that point, my day was the kind where thoughts are fleeting, including ones that make you wonder what it would really be like to drive your car off the Scotts Bluff National Monument. When that thought came to the front of my brain, I picked up my phone and texted my friend, Amber.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I typed. Before she could reply, I sent a series of rapid fire messages to her. When she responded her texts were ones of concern, reassurance, and messages that she was there for me. We texted for several minutes before I told her I needed to go sit in my car. I was about to break down completely and didn’t want to do so at work.

As I grabbed my lunch bag, the paper’s Media Editor, Maunette, came running into the break room. There was an accident in rural Scottsbluff. There was another reporter in the newsroom, but she asked me to go.

“Can’t he…,” I began to ask. She cut me off with a disappointed shake of her head. I took a deep breath to stop myself from screaming. This wasn’t the first time this happened to me.

“He won’t go,” she said.

I swallowed hard and agreed to go. Maunette said she was heading back to the police scanner to get the exact location. I said I had to pee. I walked into the bathroom as tears began to fall down my face. I walked into the far left stall, locked the door and put my head against the wall. I could barely breathe, but managed to text Amber. She said I didn’t need to go. I believed I would be fired if I didn’t go, but I didn’t know how I was going to do my job.

I choked back the tears that were desperately trying to escape and walked back to my desk to get my camera bag. Maunette held up a county map and tried to point out where I was supposed to go. All I heard was “Highway 92 and County Road S.” She was still talking, but I clung to those words. It was where I needed to go. I had a job to do. I couldn’t lose it. Not now. My job needs me.

As I walked to my car, I was trying to shake the crushing feeling on my chest. I couldn’t breathe and it was getting worse. I couldn’t do my job, but I had to.

The key slid into the lock on my car as easy as it ever does. I paused before opening the door. In my reflection on the car door’s window I could see tears beginning to fall. Worried someone would see, I quickly wiped them away with my right hand and climbed into my Toyota Yaris. I was gasping for air. Each shortened breath hurt more than the last. I slammed my hands on the steering wheel several times and smashed my head against the head rest.

“You need to keep it together, Irene,” I told myself. “But I can’t. I can’t do this. You have to.”

I reached down and turned the engine on. I shifted into first gear and floored it out of the parking lot. Each gear change got me farther away from work. As I sped west on 20th Street, the speedometer read 30, then 40 then 50 mph. I didn’t care that I was driving twice the speed limit.

As I crossed over to the edge of town, and where 20th Street becomes Highway 92, I started to think about just driving away. I would head west until my car ran out of gas. Then I would walk until I ran out of air. Fuck the accident. Fuck my job. Fuck life. I couldn’t breathe. The pain in my chest increased. It was worse than a bear hug. I gasped and gasped again, trying to breath. Each time I inhaled, it hurt more. I had stopped responding to Amber’s texts.

The tightness in my chest was crushing the life from me. My brain rapidly fluctuated between panic, convincing myself to keep going and telling myself I couldn’t do it anymore. Then, I saw County Road S. I didn’t see an accident.

I slammed on the brakes at 80mph and made a sharp left hand turn. The Yaris skidded on the dirt road as it came to a stop. I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes and blew my nose. I found it strange that I could suddenly breathe. I picked up my phone and called Maunette.

“I’m at the intersection of S and 92, but I don’t see anything.”

“Head South. You’re not that far from there.”

“Okay.”

I hung up the phone. Then, I texted my editor, Brad. “I need help.”

I shifted from neutral into first gear and started driving. Brad asked if I was okay. I told him no.

I drove to a T intersection and turned left. As I came to the crest of a small hill, I saw vehicles everywhere. AirLink was resting in a corn field, ready to transport the driver. I parked my car on the south side of the road and told Brad about the accident. I told him I thought I was having a massive anxiety attack and I was unable to do my job. He said he would be there as soon as he could.

I put on my yellow reflective vest I always wear to breaking news and got out of the car. The first thing you do at the scene of any type of breaking news is take a few quick shots. If you are thrown out, you at least have a scene photo. I pulled out my phone and took a general photo to send to Maunette so she could get something short on the Star-Herald’s website. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled. Then, I went to work.

I didn’t know when Brad would be at the scene, so I started taking pictures. I pulled out my reporter’s notebook and began jotting down details about the scene. It’s what I always do, but, on this day, it allowed me to focus on something else than the world inside my head that was falling apart.

I watched a dozen first responders spend twenty-five minutes trying to save a man’s life. His red SUV was upside down. Debris was strewn along the side of the road. I kept pushing down the shutter.

When the first responders thought they had a steady pulse, they pulled the man from his vehicle and put him on a stretcher.

I kept pushing down the shutter. Brad walked in front of my shot. I exhaled slowly.

As the man was taken across the road, into the field, and into the AirLink helicopter, I kept taking photos. That’s my job now. I need a good shot. I think I got a great one.

Brad walked up closer to the SUV for some closer shots. The helicopter lifted off the ground. I kept taking pictures. As it flew off into the distance, my phone rang. It was Maunette.

“They just called a code blue from AirLink,” she said. I could still see the helicopter flying toward the hospital.

I put my phone in my pocket. Brad was standing next to me. I gave him the bad news. He hung his head toward the ground and shook it back and forth.

Sheriff Mark Overman came over to talk to us and give us what details he could. I know Mark well. I couldn’t remember his name.

Brad and I walked back toward our cars. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“No. No, I’m not. I can’t do my job anymore.”

“Do we need to bring Greg in on this?”

I sighed deeply. I just knew my answer was going to get me fired. “Yeah, I think we do.”

I got back into my car, pulled out my reporter’s notebook and called Maunette. I dictated the story to her so she could put it online. When I was finished, I headed back toward town.

I called Amber and talked to her all the way back into town. She was a rational voice in a wilderness of screaming in my brain. I parked my car in my favorite spot, under the trees at the edge of the lot and turned off the engine. I talked to Amber for twenty more minutes. I felt a twinge of guilt for taking up so much of her time, but was grateful she never made me feel that way.

When I thought I could go back to work, I said goodbye and walked back into the office. I took my camera out of my bag and removed the SD card. My job was not done. I had to create a photo gallery and pull photos from that to crop and put cutlines on. I pushed all the no good horrible throughts out of my mind and focused on the minute details of my photos. I picked the best 19 from more than 200. When I finished I went back to my desk to try to finish out my day.

Brad called me into his office and asked if I was ready. I said yes. About a week before I had spoken to him about #metoo and how I was already struggling with life. I provided him surface details, but I needed him to know that if I started calling in sick, that was the first step down the road to ruin. He promised if I called in sick he would show up on my doorstop and make me come to work. I thought I had a handle on things myself, but this day proved me wrong.

We walked down to Greg’s office. He’s our publisher and is ultimately in charge of everyone at the Star-Herald. Brad closed the door. I could barely speak. Brad told him I wasn’t doing well and I needed some time off. I still thought Greg would fire me.

Greg looked me in the eye and asked, “Are you okay?”

“No,” I said. I was still choking back tears, trying desperately to not be “a girl” and bawl even though I really wanted to.

Greg didn’t want the details. He wanted me to be okay. He gave me information about calling the employee assistance program. I appreciated it, but I didn’t want to talk to someone anonymous who would eventually refer me someplace else.

“I have a friend who is a psychologist,” I told him. “I plan to call her.”

Greg wanted me to go home immediately. I couldn’t. I still had another story to write. He told me to take the next day, Friday, off. He didn’t want to see me again until Wednesday. I said I couldn’t. I had my weekend stories to write.

“I know we’ve had this conversation before about how you are never sick and don’t take sick days, but you are ill right now and you need to take sick time,” Greg said.

We agreed I would come in on Friday, write my stories and go home. When Wednesday came, if I needed to, I could take more sick time.

Friday morning, I sent my friend a message. I need help.

She was out of town but promised to call me Saturday morning. When we spoke on the phone on Saturday, I told her the gist of my problem. I need help. I respect your opinion. She needed to call me back so she could contact someone to see if that person would see me. Less than ten minutes later, she called back. From somewhere on I-80 between Lincoln and Scottsbluff, she made the arrangements. I am incredibly grateful she took my call and helped me. Not everyone knows someone who will help you on their day off in a car zipping down the highway. She doesn’t know it, but she saved me.

I’m still learning how to deal with the childhood trauma, with the nightmares, with living my entire life in survival mode. My introversion, anxiety, and depression adds a lovely layer of panic and frustration to each day. Inside it all is a brain that can’t shut off, that sees and feels everything so deeply that it is overwhelming and sometimes hurts. But I’m still here.

Mental illness affects tens of millions of people in the United States each year. I am one of them. According to the National Institute of Mental Health Information Resource Center, only half of people with mental illnesses receive treatment.

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. It’s a time to raise awareness about mental illness and to erase stigmas. Stigma may not directly affect you, but it prevents the 1 in 5 Americans with mental health conditions from seeking help, according to the National Alliance on Mental Illness.

Stigma is toxic to their mental health because it creates an environment of shame, fear and silence that prevents many people from seeking help and treatment. The perception of mental illness won’t change unless we act to change it.

My friend recommended the right person to help me. If I didn’t make that call, my life would be spiraling out of control right now. While not everyone is fortunate enough to have a super smart friend who knows all the right people to help you, all you need to do is ask, to say I need help.

I don’t know how long this journey will be or where it is going to take me, but I’m on it as long as I need to be. I’m still here. I still struggle. I’m still learning. And I’m going to make it to 100.