In honour of both suicide prevention week and the eve of my 21st birthday, I have a story to share.
When I was 12, I first put thought to paper. Four words that would change the course of my life.
I was 12 when I wrote that in my diary, a sentiment that carried through the rest of my grade school years.
When I was 13, I tried to end my life. I swallowed a bottle of pills, hoping to stop the pain I was feeling. The attempt was fruitless, and I was left hurting more than before.
Self harm was my best friend for the next 5 years.
When I was 15, I tried again to end my existence, but this time I was surrounded by a group of friends who loved me and were trying to support me.
I struggled throughout high school, trying to balance depression and school, and more often than not the depression won.
In April 2012, I made the decision to start seeing a therapist. When I first entered her office, I was convinced that I wouldn't live to see 18, or even to graduate high school, something that was only a few months away.
During that first year of therapy, I had many relapses, depression crushing me down, even though I so desperately wanted to get better.
Two years later, I made the decision to see a psychiatrist. He started me on medications, and slowly I started to get better.
Now here I am, about to turn 21, working a job I love, going to school, I have so many healthy friendships, an amazing boyfriend, an extensive support system, and I'm so happy I'm alive.
Yes, there are still bad days, the days I don't want to get out of bed, the days that I can't ignore the voices that tell me to give up. But the good days far outweigh the bad.
So that's my story, yes it's edited because the full story is way too long for a Facebook post. But I'm so glad that I was able to get the help I needed, before I was just a memory in a pine box.
