“’Hope’ is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the
words –


And never stops – at all –“





- Emily Dickinson


About a month ago, I found myself, a 15 year old girl, who hid her sadness under a fake smile, seriously contemplating life and death – contemplating suicide. I wanted to die. I didn’t want to live. I had been struggling with depression for almost a year, and I just could not see the light at the end of the tunnel anymore. I felt completely worthless. I honestly felt like just a body that could think and feel, and nothing more. Thoughts like, “I’m just a bunch of bones and chemicals, anyways” ran through my mind constantly. What was I? What was my purpose for my life? Did I even have one? Deep inside me, I knew I needed reassurance for my life purpose. I needed to know that I was not worthless, and that someone did care about me, and that someone did love me. As scary as it may sound, at the time, I didn’t want to live any longer. I didn’t want to be a part of the world anymore. Death seemed one hundred times better than life. It felt like my only escape.
I was feeling so awful, and alone, that I messaged my best friend, telling her how I had been feeling, and I said goodbye. Fourth period had just finished when I clicked “sent”. I had a spare, so I was at home, lying on my bed, crying and just thinking, and hoping that someone cared enough about me to stop me from taking something so valuable to me – my life.

In a matter of minutes, the phone rang. My grandma picked up. It was the principle from school. He read the Facebook message I sent to my best friend. From downstairs, I could hear my grandma crying. She came downstairs to talk to me.
“We need to take you to the hospital,” she said.
What? The hospital? What had I done? I was crying, shaking, and afraid. I didn’t want to go to the hospital. The hospital was for sick people. I wasn’t sick. What could the hospital do for me? I was furious with my best friend for telling. But, in a way, I could feel the relief in my chest, heart, and in my mind. Deep inside, I was glad she told.

“We need to take you to the hospital. We need to get you better,” she said again.
My grandma took me to Victoria hospital. And, after hours of waiting in the emergency room and hours of talking to the doctors and counsellors, the decision was made that I would be admitted. The first night in the hospital was the worst. I missed home. Tears fled down my cheeks the whole night.

While I was at Victoria hospital, I met some true friends. The thing about all the people you meet in the hospital is simple. They’re non-judgemental, and they all understand. They’re able to understand because they’re all dealing with the same sort of problem. It’s not like at school, where you’re called an “attention whore” for your problems. One of my best friends that I met in the hospital is Shawna. Shawna and I were roommates, who eventually became the best of friends. Shawna was also depressed, and we both understood each other. We’d help each other get through the bad days we’d have in the hospital, and we’d celebrate the good ones. We were there for each other through everything, we still are. Even though, we are both out of the hospital, we both talk and encourage each other, and we do hangout.

After spending about three weeks in the hospital, there are many simple life lessons that I’ve learned. I’ve learned to not give up. I’ve learned that I am a very smart girl, and that I can do anything. I can be anything, if I set my mind to it. I realized how truly lucky I am to have what I have, and that “what goes down, must come up again”. I know that I’m not “cured” from my depression. I may never be. I know that I will have to work at staying positive and looking forward, but I’ve also learned that I can’t do it alone.
I’m looking forward from now on… and, you should to.