Almost five years ago, to the day, I forgot how to burn a DVD.

I was working at my first job out of college, a production assistant at ESPN for the World Series of Poker. Like most PAs, I had to do a lot of mundane tasks like transcribing interviews, logging footage, and burning copies of DVDs.

The DVD burning was the easiest. We had a special machine where you popped the original DVD into the top slot and the blank DVD-R into the bottom slot. Press a button, and boom — you had a full copy of an hour-long episode of ESPN’s World Series of Poker within a few minutes. A monkey could do it.

But in late August 2009, I forgot how the machine worked. I put the original DVD in the top slot, closed it, and then my mind went blank. My body went tingly from head to toe with that feeling you get when your foot falls asleep. I couldn’t catch my breath. I knew something was wrong. I was panicking. Freaking out. And I only remember feeling this intense and focused sadness.

I thought of this story Monday when I learned Robin Williams died. Williams never hid his problems. He had been in and out of rehab over the years for alcoholism and was somewhat of a poster child for bipolar disorder and depression, a celebrity going through the same stuff too many normal folks like you and I go through. But clearly he couldn’t take it and managed to find the time to end it all.

I’ve never actively wanted to end my life. But a few days before the DVD incident, I’m sure I felt something close to what Williams felt Monday. I remember getting off the subway on the way to my then-girlfriend’s apartment and thinking to myself it wouldn’t be so bad if a bus came along and squashed me like a pancake as I crossed Amsterdam Avenue.

I’m not the first or only person to make this analogy, but sometimes depression makes you feel like you’re trapped in a burning skyscraper and the only options are to live in agony, choking on smoke and having your flesh fried or just jump out the window and end it all immediately. Williams definitely felt that way Monday. That’s the only rationale for why he killed himself.

I was dumb to not recognize the symptoms of my impending breakdown, especially considering I had had those symptoms off and on since I was a little kid and knew how to manage them thanks to some excellent doctors, the support of my parents and family, and the fact that my body responded very well to antidepressants. I had been off medication for a few years at that point, and declined to go back on them even though I knew I wasn’t feeling so hot.

So, I broke down. I had to quit my job and get better and start from scratch. I found a good doctor and got back on medication. It took at least two months of therapy and medication before I felt functional again. It took another two months before I felt like I could get back to work.

I’m better now. I feel amazing. I’m never going to let that happen again. And neither should you.

A lot of my friends already know this story. That’s because I truly believe depression, anxiety, and other related mental illnesses are just that — illnesses. They shouldn’t be viewed any differently than a sinus infection or the flu. Humans are complex, emotional creatures, and some of us (like me, like Williams, and like probably a zillion other people) are born with some putrid gene that can throw our entire emotional states out of whack. So I don’t hide it. If it comes up in conversation, I tell the story. If someone I know is feeling similar stuff, I tell the story. And so on. The stigma around mental illness needs to go away before people suffering from it are able to get better.

If you or someone you know is going through something like that, it’s on you to help. Make that person listen to you. Don’t give up.

Also, “getting help” for that person isn’t always enough. When you’re that low, you don’t even want the help. Sit with the person. Hold her hand and rub her back and sit with her for hours and watch a bunch of junk on Netflix.

Then get the help.

It works. And like any treatable illness, it really does get better.