Trigger warning: Detailed description of self-harm and depression that may be disturbing to some readers.

I remember the first time I cut myself.

It was Valentine’s Day. February 14th, 2014.

I don’t really recall the complete details of what happened. I remember my parents had gone out that night to dinner in The City. It was quiet in our house. And I just remember feeling the loneliest I had ever felt in my life.

I knew it was only time before I did it. I had seen it on the internet before – knew what to do.

I went downstairs, grabbed a handheld pencil sharpener and a screwdriver, padded back up the steps into my room and locked the door behind me. I sat on my bed, and slowly screwed out the metal center of the plastic sharpener, discarding everything but the blade in the trash.

I looked down at the shiny metal and then the reflection of myself in my mirror. My tear-stained cheeks and red eyes held sadness and emptiness, loneliness and despair that shocked me to my core.

There was nothing more certain I believed my freshman year of high school.

That year, I would wake up and cry because I had to go to school. I was afraid all the time. I lost all my friends and slept as much as I could, never wanting to wake up. I starved myself and then I binge-ate. My grades slipped because I couldn’t do work without wanting to kill myself, and I was jealous and angry at anyone who seemed to be happy.

Looking back, that year is very dim and hard to remember. I just remember that I always felt like there was a black cloud casting a shadow over me even when things should have been happy. I never felt like I was enough — I always could have been better.

I was ashamed of myself for no real reason. I felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere. Like I didn’t belong in this life. These were thoughts and feelings I’d had ever since I was little but didn’t realize it was depression and anxiety until then.

I thought that no one was lonely, that no one else had struggles, and that there was no one I could relate too. Such are the thoughts of any young child.

I believed I was alone.

But truly, I was afraid – afraid that I could never receive the appreciation of my parents, that I wouldn’t be able to be successful, that I would just continue to be lonely. And that's what I truly lived with – fear. Fear that masqueraded itself as detachment.

I feared everything. I feared my work, my grades, my weight, my appearance, my parents, their appreciation, the judgments of others, and most of all, my judgments of myself.

I thought it would never get better. That is the true staple of depression.

But, as everyone says, I was wrong. So, so wrong.

I feared not getting good grades.

I graduated with honors and a 4.02 cumulative GPA.

I feared I wouldn’t get into a good college.

I go to the University of Michigan.

I feared that I would always be embarrassed by my appearance.

I am now 5’7,’’ 170 pounds and proud.

I feared I would be alone.

I have incredible friends that love me and support me no matter what.

I feared that I wouldn't be where I am sitting now.

I survived.

That fear has never truly gone away. I don’t think it ever will. But I no longer pray for death. I do want to live. It’s a feeling that tends to surprise me sometimes. A feeling that I had lost for so long.

I am once again scared of crossing a street at night and being hit by a car.

I know I fear death because I wish to live.

Never let yourself lose that feeling.

There is so much to live for.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

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Available 24 hours every day