Note: This article contains the mention of self-harm and suicide.

I've always felt that I was different from other people. Growing up, I began to recognize that I wasn't like my classmates. I didn't want to answer questions in class for fear of being incorrect. I hated having to speak in front of other people. I was scared easily. When I wanted to spend the night at a friends house, I would have major panic-attacks in the middle of the night and begged the parent to call my mom or dad to come pick me up. I felt horrible about leaving, but I couldn't shake the anxious and scared feeling that I had come to know so well. As I grew older, friendships faded away and my emotions only grew stronger, and I started to wonder, why? I was convinced that there was something wrong with me.

I grew up in and around church. Every Sunday was reserved as the day we went to church, most likely both all morning and at night. Throughout the week, I would see people from my church, whether it be an art lesson or a bible study - I was pretty much surrounded by the church. For a long time, I enjoyed it. I loved learning about the Bible and the Lord. I was young when I accepted Christ - around six or seven years old. I liked going to church and I knew that if I was 'saved', I wouldn't have to go to hell. This fear of hell drove me to make a big decision at a young age. I didn't understand what I was doing, but I did it anyways. I wanted people to like me, and who would like the little girl who was labeled as 'unsaved' or a 'bad Christian'?

Shortly after I made that decision, I was baptized. I didn't know what I was doing, but I knew that baptism meant that I was telling others that I loved God and I knew that people would be happy if I did it. Maybe if I was baptized, people would start to like me and I would feel accepted, but I was wrong. My feelings about myself never changed. I felt broken and messy. I continued to push my emotions deep down within myself and didn't speak of how I felt unloved at this church.

Now, this church I am speaking of didn't necessarily do anything to me. I wasn't forced to do or say anything. The reason why I disliked going to church was because of how it made me feel about myself. I would go to youth group and sit with the 'unpopular' girls. I knew every single person in the room but still felt alone and isolated. For a long time, I stayed by my mothers side because she made me feel like I wasn't as alone. The other girls were nice and I was friends with most of them, but I felt like I had nothing in common with them. I've always had an 'old soul', so connecting with others my age wasn't an easy thing.

As the years went by, these feelings grew and I kept pushing them deeper and deeper down inside of me. By the time I hit seventh grade, I had gotten used to how I felt. The summer before I went into eighth grade, I went to camp with my church. That week I heard the message presented to me in a way I had never heard before, and I began to understand who Christ really was. I accepted Christ into my heart, and I expected for my life to get better. Oh, how wrong I was.

If anything, my emotions continued to spiral down and I found myself breaking. I remember telling my mom I wanted to see a doctor, and so we went. I was diagnosed with depression on that day. I don't remember much about it, but I remember that I felt like my world was crashing down all around me.

I began seeing a psychiatrist (someone who gives you medicine for your mental health) as well as a therapist. The first two years of being diagnosed with depression were absolutely horrible. I felt hopeless, unloved, unwanted, unworthy, disgusting... and the list goes on. Church began a large trigger point for me. I couldn't sit during a sermon. I felt like I was being yelled at for what I was doing, and I felt like God was angry at me. After months of attending church with my newly diagnosed depression, I could no longer step foot in the building without breaking down. As time went on, I convinced my parents to let me stop going. I was a wreck when I went, and I knew it. Everyone knew it. I cried every time I went, and I ran out of the building sobbing more often than not.

My life with depression was not fantastic. I was far from healthy. I had virtually no friends, for I had pushed everyone away. I drew even more into myself and slipped down deeper into the dark hole. My first therapist was our family therapist. She was kind and for a while, she helped me with my depression. I learned more about it, but I didn't begin to climb out of that hole. I fell further and eventually, I hit rock bottom.

For a while, I began to self-harm. I felt so broken and so numb, and I wanted to know that I was still alive. I thought that if I hurt myself on the outside, the pain on the inside would go away. I had heard that self-harm was a way to find relief, and I was desperate for it.

Needless to say, self-harm was not the answer. I wanted a way out of my depression. I started having even worse thoughts - thoughts about dying. I knew that I didn't want to die by a blade or a gunshot, so I chose pills as my method. I thought about the relief I would feel if I no longer existed, and how nice it would be to be in Heaven.

I began to fear myself, my thoughts. I was afraid to go to Heaven - would I even go to Heaven if I killed myself? What if God didn't love me if I committed suicide? These fears were what kept me from death by my own hand.

I remember the day I told my first therapist how bad I felt, how I felt the urge to no longer live. She panicked, and I don't blame her. Here I was, a fourteen year old girl, sobbing and wanting to cease to exist. I remember that she wanted me to tell my parents, and I remember how scared I was to tell them that their only daughter didn't want to live. I was terrified.

During that appointment, my therapist suggested that I go to a clinic for those who are a harm to themselves or others. Now, that horrified me. The last place I wanted to be was a place all by myself without my family. This fear of being put into a psychiatric hospital is what convinced me to sign a contract, stating that I would not kill myself.

Soon after that, I switched therapists. The medicine I was taking was helping a bit, and I was feeling better - as in, I no longer wanted to die by my own hand or hurt myself. The second therapist I saw was very strange. I'm sure she's a good therapist for other patients, but she wasn't for me. I didn't speak a word the entire appointment and soon, we were on the hunt for another therapist.

After trying a few more, we found one by the name of Melody. I was afraid to see another therapist but I wanted to get better, and I had no other choice. Choosing to see Melody was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

Melody and I clicked extremely well. I loved talking to her and I felt like she understood me. I was out of the darkest phase of my depression, and I needed help with coping with the feelings that were still lurking within me.

With the help of medication, my family, and Melody, I began to heal. I no longer hated the way I looked, I didn't skip meals anymore, and I started to appreciate myself for who I was. Now it has been almost seven years after my nightmare began and I am finally able to say that I am content with myself. It's been a very long road to recovery, but it's been worth it.

I am better because of my depression and it is by God's grace alone that I made it through the other side.

(Photo: Melody and I after I graduatedHigh School)