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Some people say that suicide is a sin. They say that the only kinds of people that would do such a thing, or even think about it, for that matter, are selfish and spoiled, and full of drama. They say that suicide is for idiots, and that they should have realized they could get help. They say lies.
I was there once. I wanted to give up. I wanted nothing more than to just pull the trigger. I almost did it. A few times, actually. I don’t even know how many drafts of suicide notes I wrote. But each and every one expressed the same problems, the same feelings of hopelessness, and the same want for it all to end.
Depression struck me. All I could think about was how bad my life was, and how it wasn’t ever going to get any better. I could not find a reason to keep going, no matter how hard I tried. I was so alone, and in so much pain. I began to pray for death, pray that I didn’t have to live any longer. I had no strength to keep going on.
It seemed that nothing made me happy anymore. I used to love going out with friends and enjoying myself, but now I felt like I couldn’t relate to them like I once could. They told me that I was depressing and that I needed to lighten up. But I couldn’t. So I was invited out less and less, until I stopped speaking to them all together. I added it to my already long list of losses.
I lost my friends, my sanity, and the life that I once enjoyed. All that I had now was a life that I hated. I could find no reason to go on living it. I no longer wanted to either.
I tried to get help. I told the few friends that I had left that I was thinking a lot about death. They tried to comfort me, but they weren’t sure what to say, and what they did wasn’t very comforting. I told my mother that I wanted to die, and she told me not to, that she would be upset if I did that. But by then I was so far gone that I didn’t even care what the people around me felt anymore. I hated my life so much that I was going to do whatever it took to get out of it.
Then the school caught wind of what I was going to do. They told me that I couldn’t go to school until I talked to the psychiatrist that they had on hand. I ended up only having to miss one day, but it was enough to make me feel even worse. When I talked to him, he immediately diagnosed me with depression, something I had known I had all along. He went so far as to attempt to prescribe me with medication, something that both my parents refused. I did not have the mental strength to fight them on their decision.
Walking out of his office was a disaster. My parents, whom had divorced long ago and were not at all friendly, got into an argument. I had known it would happen once I saw my father at the beginning of the night. He always wanted to start with someone. It was late at night already, and all I wanted was to go home. My mother led me away, her arm around me. She had to guide me, as I was crying too hard to see.
I started going to a different therapist. Once a week, I had an hour to sort out everything with a professional that was, for once, totally on my side. I felt better that there was someone only with the intention of helping. True, she was getting paid, but I took comfort in the fact that she had made the decision to work in this field, so she had to have had compassion for her clients.
As I began to talk to her more and more, I began to see more of my old self coming through. I remembered being happy. I laughed at the little things that had used to bring so much pleasure to me before. I stopped praying for death.
As much as I improved, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to fully heal. As my therapist said, “what’s in your past is in your past. It will always be a part of you. But it is the past now, and you have the ability to focus on the future.” I know that it’s true. I was once alone and afraid, and I will never be able to totally get away from that, but I can get better. And I am getting better. And that’s enough for me.