It was 2011. My Chemical Romance was probably playing on my iPod speaker that I had just gotten that previous Christmas, and I was sitting on my bed, crying. I was considering doing something that I couldn't even say out loud.

I was a 13-year-old contemplating suicide.

I had a satisfying childhood: A picture perfect nuclear family, a dog, close friends that I had known ever since I was 5. Everything was great, that is, up until it wasn't.

I became an edgier, angstier version of myself who listened to rock music and painted her nails black. That wasn't quite on brand with my current friend group. They began to ice me out, to make plans right in front of me without inviting me, to talk behind my back. Inevitably, I lost my friends that I had ever since I was 5 years old.

Although I eventually left them and found a new group of friends, other people began to make fun of me and my fall from grace in the middle school social hierarchy. I remember one kid called me over during lunch and asked me, "Do you sit with them to make you feel better about yourself?" I was shocked. This person genuinely believed I was sitting with my new friends because they made me look better.

I felt like I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Either I become like Gretchen Weiners and insert myself in a group of people who didn't want me or be shamed and pitied for hanging out with friends who weren't as popular. It was a lose-lose situation, and I was getting exhausted.

Then, one night after a tough day at school, I allowed dark thoughts to overwhelm my mind. A heaviness gathered in my throat and stomach as existential dread took over. Detrimental thoughts interrogated me with questions like, "In the grand scheme of things, how does your life matter?" and "Would anyone even care if you died?" I was barely a teenager, and I began to consider taking my life.

In tough situations, my mom always told me to make a list of the pros and cons. so that's what I did; I weighed my 13 years of life and separated the little parts of it in terms of what would and would not matter if I died. As I saw the cons list grow with all the names of the people who would miss me if I died, I was overcome by the gravity of what I was thinking about and broke down in tears. I had successfully talked myself down from the ledge, and I have a piece of paper to thank for it.

Looking back on that night, I started to realize how absurd it was for me to have that experience at such a young age, to question why I mattered.

Did our hunter-gatherer ancestors ever have this problem? Social isolation has not been a modern problem, so what is the missing link? Why, as a species, have we seen an increase in mental illnesses like depression and anxiety? Why was I, a 13-year-old girl with a healthy family structure, struggling over the meaning of my life?

My advice to any young person struggling with these dark and intrusive thoughts is this: find an outlet. Talk to a friend/parent/guardian/community/anyone about what you are going through. I began journaling just so I could get my thoughts on paper and out of my head. And just know you are not alone.

For more help and information about teen suicide, visit sptsusa.org

For the Suicide Prevention Hotline, call 1-800-273-8255