My story

Okay, please don’t read this unless you are prepared to read a long winded story of my life. Many of you won’t understand and that’s okay.

The relevant part of this story starts in third grade. Back then, everything was bright and shiny, and death unthinkably far off. Sure, I knew it existed, but I never saw it up close. Then, my teacher died of cancer. I get scared, more than the other kids, for some reason. I tell my friends that they should be scared too, that we could die at any moment, and, like third graders, they don’t take me seriously. After a while, I kinda forget about it. Until sixth grade. Now, one thing you should know about me is that I have moved quite a bit, sixth grade was my last year living in the same place I had since kindergarden. I moved in the middle of the year to a different country on a different continent. I was still going to an american school, but everything was different. Since I had to make new friends, I started to read people. This was on point when I realized that I was different from everyone. So I changed to fit in and found myself a perfectly good group of friends. The first time I had any suicidal thoughts was in that year. I was 12 years old. They were mild at first just things like “If I jump off this cliff, I will surely die.” or “Are these pills strong enough to kill someone?”, but nothing serious until after winter break of that year. You see, when I’m around other people, I’m almost forced to smile and laugh like them, and it becomes natural. However, if I’m alone, it’s a whole other story. So, it was the end of winter break, after all the holiday excitement and I end up in the bathroom with a swiss army knife. That was the first time I ever cut. The cuts were shallow, but they still left marks across my wrist. When I went back to school, I found out just how hard it was to hide your wrist from everyone, so I came up with a solution. I cut on my upper arms and thighs. That way, even in summertime, they could be hidden. In seventh grade, some teachers found out that another girl was depressed. They called in counsellors, restricted her from school trips, and her parents even took her out of school for a while. I didn’t want to be found out. I didn’t want to hurt my parents and my sister. Then, in eighth grade, my friend’s uncle committed suicide. I saw how it affected her and her family, and I desperately tried to get better, but then I slipped some how, and found myself back in my hole of depression. But, I always acted like I was fine. I knew if I told someone, they would be sad, they would feel betrayed, they might become depressed. I didn’t want to do that to anyone, but I longed for someone to talk to. So I waited. Before I knew it, it was the end of the year, the end of middle school. On the bus home from the last dance, my friend told me that she was planning to kill herself that night. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to be a hypocrite, I believed that people should have their own choice in when to die. On the other hand, if I didn’t do anything, I would only hurt more people, the exact opposite of what I had been trying to do the whole year. In the end, I told her that she shouldn’t do it, I told her how much everyone would be hurt. Not a completely against my morals, but definitely not what I would  have said if I had been 100% honest. Looking back on that now, I kind of regret saving her life. I know how bad that sounds, but if I can say something against one of my most concrete beliefs, how much more of my personality is questionable? I’m I that weak? Don’t get me wrong, I’d love for someone to change my opinion about death, but, at that point, that is what I truly thought. Now, I’m standing on the edge as well. I don’t know what to do, but I don’t think I will do anything drastic in the near, near future. Please let me know what you thought. A follow up post will come. I will be about why I was thinking of suicide in the first place. Thank you so much for reading, and sorry about the long winded post!