May 28th, 2015. It started out with just thinking, normal thinking. Not my normal thinking. Not the usual “Does this make me look fat?” or “I hate people”. It was more “Should I watch Disney Channel?” and “What cereal should I eat today?”. It was a normal person’s day. My mom was at work, my brother was playing video games, and my sister and step-dad were sleeping. Normal. I was in my room, laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. That’s when the thoughts started rolling. It went from “I’m tired.” to “wow i wish i was dead”. Things were going downhill and fast. These were the low moments I was so casually use to. I was a very depressed person, this was my normal. But it got worse. I started really thinking.

Of course I had planned my death times before. But time and time again I would never live up to actually attempt again. I had done it once before and failed. I thought about the box beneath my bed that was filled with ipheprophen. I had built the amount up over time when I thought about doing it before. But like I had said I was always kidding myself. I reached beneath the bed that I had been lying on for an hour now. I felt for the red sparkly box. It was such a happy misleading object. Who knew such a beautiful box held such a dark ending. Such an ugly fate was held in a box I had gotten it in 7th grade from my first kiss as a christmas present. I brought it up on top of my bed and opened it. In my head i could think of all the reasons i deserved to die. All the times I messed up. Everything I didn’t like about myself. Looking at the tablets I knew what I was doing and I wasn’t stopping this time. I dumped them in my hand and sat there.

Contemplating. “Do it, do it”, “They all want you dead”,  “No one likes you anyway”, “No one will miss you”. Those were the voices talking. They talk so much it’s so hard not to believe them. It’s like a repeating disk going in my mind. Replaying, replaying, replaying. Then without anymore hesitation i threw them into my mouth and swallowed. Downed with water. 75 pills.

I could feel the water and pills flowing from my mouth down to my stomach. At first i was calm. Overflooded with the feelings of relief and comfort. It was so quiet. They were silent killers. But I did it. It would finally be over. The sadness,  the depression, the anxiety, and the people telling me I was crazy when I knew it was a mental illness that I had no control over. Or maybe it was just the voices talking. Maybe I was crazy.  It was hard knowing what was real and what wasn’t when they were always around. 10 minutes pass and nothing happens. I wasn’t sure what to do. Was I just supposed to fall asleep and just not wake up? Was I supposed to get tired?  I started to panic thinking of all the things I  would miss and the people that would miss me. I would miss out on meeting new people and exploring new places. I would miss out on prom, graduation, having a family, and life in general. Things could end up getting better and I realized I wouldn’t be around to see them. My eyes got watery and the tears coursed down my face and I ran downstairs to my sleeping sister. She woke up to me crying and screaming at her about what I had done. I was so hysterical I could barely talk. Having to catch my breathe and keep myself from collapsing onto the floor out of emotional exhaustion. Tears started to stream down her face. She dragged me to the bathroom and explained to me I had to puke it up as best as I could. “Don’t do it, you worked so hard to do this” “She’s lying” I tried as she continued to talk to me about how she loves me so much and I was her best friend and she wouldn't forgive herself if she had lost me. “LIES.” While I began to give up at throwing up the pills I had swallowed she called for an ambulance. They came after what felt like years. Putting me on a gurney and I remember seeing the tears in my little brother’s eyes and confusion on his face. What have I done?

The next thing I remember is people in the ambulance yelling at me and asking me questions that I didn’t want to answer. Fumbling over my words I started losing consciousness. Going in and out I remember I couldn’t lift my arms or legs, they felt numb. Moments of darkness flashed in my mind. The time I sat in the counselor's office in middle school, my fists were clenched and the lump in my throat had told me I was about to cry but I kept it in as the counselor asked to see my wrists. The time I screamed at my mom out of anger that she didn’t understand what I meant by I wish I was dead. The times i would stay up until 4 am because i thought i could feel my chest caving in and all I wanted to do was crumble into nothing. The times I got up for school with no sleep, baggy eyes, and a long sleeve to cover up the damage of that night. Even the time I laid lifeless; half awake in my mother’s arms because I had bled out my life. That was the last thought I had before losing full consciousness
I regained full awareness 2 days later in the hospital. Choking on the tube down my throat I started to cry. Remembering how I got myself into this position. I looked at the faces in the room I saw looks of sadness and disappointment. My mom looked like she had not slept in weeks. My brother asleep with his face buried in blankets that covered my skin, my sister still wiping tears off her face. I then realised ending your life does not take away the pain it only moves it to another person.

I then spent 12 days in a mental facility for intensive therapy and to keep me from harming myself. Which was all I wanted to do. How could I live through this. I felt like all I had ever done in life was fail everything and everyone. Now I had failed at trying to end all that. What would people think? What would people do? How could i explain this to my teachers, friends, family? Would they understand? I was in this big mess and I wasn’t sure how to get out of it.

How many times have I told people I was “okay” or “just tired” when all I wanted to do was shatter into a million pieces? How many times would I continue to crash and burn? How many times will I pretend that I am alright when I know that I am nowhere close to being okay?

12 days. 12 days in a place I had been 4 times before, the Mental Hospital.  I met a lot of people. People who were like me, who have been to the same dark place as I have been. I could see it in their eyes. How sad everyone was, it was a terrible place for someone who was as sad as we all were. Everyday was the same thing. We were always busy but everyone seemed to just mope around. Things seemed like they were in slow motion.

The days dragged on, phone calls every now and then from my mom. Never any visitors. Gross food. Stomach pains from the overdose. Doctors changing my medication every day because nothing ever seemed to make me better. Things never felt okay. I almost felt worse than i did before. There was so much pain I couldn’t see anything else. How could i see anything else? That’s all there was. I relapsed twice while i was in there. I was on full lockdown. Always being watched no matter what i do. I wanted to break down into a puddle of tears.
On a day of the always sad always boring group therapy one girl decided to say something. She stood up and began talking. Which was normal, a patient always began topics. She started talking about school. How she never had many friends, or good grades, how people were never mean to her they just didn’t notice her. Like she was invisible. Nobody even knew she really existed. She was sad most of the time and her home life was not the greatest. She talked about a lot of things. But the moment came when she talked about why she was here. Tears welded up in her eyes but not one fell. After taking so much she decided if no one was going to notice her alive why would anyone notice she was dead. It hit hard. It was really registering why we were all here. But she kept talking, when she lived through her attempt and ended up here people visited. Called. Talked to her. She was the one not noticing. After that, one person after the next stood up to tell their story. Sooner or later I stood up. Without even thinking I blurted out everything. From beginning to end. I cried and cried and cried but I kept going. No one said anything they just kept silent and listened.  Maybe that was all I needed. Someone to listen. Someone to hear and understand that things were hard. Things changed after that. People talked, laughed, smiled, some tears yes, but there was color.

I was in this big dark room and there seemed to be this tiny light. It was small but it didn’t matter. With that little light I could find my way out. Of course things still sucked. I was and still am very depressed. My mood dips constantly. But i worked hard on getting out of the hospital. That was my first step. June 8th, I walked outside for the first time in 12 days. Nobody holding my hand so i couldn’t run off and hurt myself, nobody staring me down, just my mom and i walking to the car to go home.

I remember at this point in time i believed nothing was going to be okay. No matter what people had told me. They could explain to me people get through these types of things and learn from them, they become stronger people. But i thought i would never be one of them. I was depressed and that was all i was ever going to be.

Today i am in outpatient therapy and also attended DBT group therapy there. Two weeks ago, monday i graduated DBT and i am now looking into being  mentor for other people who were in my position. I can think of reasons to live, things to like about myself. I can understand what it was like to actually want to get out of the bed in the morning. I’m going to know what it’s like to be stronger than i was at age 15.

Anyone can find that door sometimes you just need a push. It ended with thinking. With my new normal thinking. I am not what depression has carved into me, I am tough. Sometimes i feel like the world is crashing in on me and my bones are breaking and that there is nothing i want more than to rid myself from the world. But it is okay. Relapse is a part of recovery and recovery lasts a lifetime.