I was in the third grade the first time I harmed myself. I remember my brothers being so mean to me and I took a butter knife and tried to cut my arm. Guaranteed there was nothing that actually happened, but that was the first time I ever thought about something like that.

Fast forward to the 7th grade. I was diagnosed with depression and in and out of my school's counselor office about self-harming. My mother believed it was just for attention and maybe it was at first. It soon dug into something deeper.

A little later in life, junior year of high school in the summer, I attempted suicide. That night still runs through my mind almost every lonely night. I remember the pain I felt after harming myself and every single white tiny pill I took. I remember going downstairs bawling my eyes out to my family showing them what I have done. I remember the screams and cries of everyone. I remember the flashing lights and sirens blaring outside of my home. I remember the laying down in the back of the ambulance wondering how I got there and people screaming questions at me and bright lights feeding into my eyes. I remember hearing voices praying to their God above hoping I would make it through. I remember in the hospital room, with doctors and nurses pulling my blood, putting fluids inside me, connecting me to IVs. I remember pissing on myself because I couldn't make it to the bathroom or even move at all. I remember vomiting black liquid like I was in the exorcist releasing this demonic presence of evil from my soul. I remember flat-lining but soon coming back. Most importantly I remember that I didn't die.

I was grateful that I was still alive to make it through another day. But at that moment, that is when I realized that depression is real and I have a serious mental illness and I needed help.

So I went to a children's mental health hospital. I stayed in that place for a week. Leaving it I felt fine. I still relapsed time from time but nothing major happened. I felt like I was finally free from the tight clutch depression had on me.

I became 19 years old. I became a sophomore at MSU. I became happy and free. As each sunset and raised I became more depressed. More anxious about things. More lonely. I lost people close to me because of these feelings. More importantly, I lost myself again. I lost control. I gave myself to those white pills again. This time I didn't have family to help me. I didn't have friends. I had no one but the voices in my head telling me this is right. I'm doing the right thing. Everyone will be better off without me. I remember crying myself to sleep that night after swallowing 73 pills. The pain in my stomach hurt so much I don't even remember how I slept. I truly thought I wouldn't wake up. But I did. I woke up the next morning hating myself that I messed up again. I couldn't even get the second time right. I was thinking of new ways of how to get the job done. Something spoke to me making me switch those thoughts off. I called the ambulance and was rushed to the hospital again to get help.

I spent another week in a mental hospital but this time for adults. This time I was done. I knew I would never ever try this again.

I'm 22 years old now and I can say I haven't attempted suicide since that day. I still relapse with self-harm. I still have suicidal thoughts. My depression still comes and goes. But I'm still here. I'm still here regardless of everything that has happened to me. I'm still here even after trying not to be twice. I'm still here regardless of what people believe. I'm still here. Yes, I will always have depression. That is something that will never go away but I found my reason to fight. I will continue to fight every day. I'm 22 years old and I want to continue to grow. I am still here and plan on not leaving anytime soon.