I am fifty-three years old and, by any standard, I am a survivor. But I do not think that I could have survived without "a little help from my friends," a line from one of my favorite Beatles’ songs.

The "help" was from mental health services and the mental health personnel were "my friends." My other acquaintances and "chums" have no idea that I have been a consumer of mental health services or that I take medication. I have only one friend who knows my past, and she also has used mental health services. My family knows, my brothers and sisters, but no one else knows.

I feel that I owe my life to the people who have helped me, and yet I hope no one finds out that I have been a "consumer" or am on medication. I am afraid my children would suffer, and that no one would ever look at me the same way. Would they believe my "take" on a given situation, or would they just disbelieve everything I say? Would I be allowed to work with young people? Would I be allowed to drive a car?

I have met many people who, in my humble opinion, need the help of mental health services, but are never going to admit it. They are doing just fine, or so they say. Even my own brothers and sisters refuse to admit they have problems. It’s all right for me to be a consumer of mental health services, but they feel they have no such need, even though it is easy for me to see that they have some of the same problems I have.

I want to help others. My past uniquely qualifies me to empathize with compassion in areas that are too painful for most people to think about. Thank God, people helped me ... I want to return the favor!