As I prepare today for a conversation I’ve had a million times, I always get a little nervous. Will they like me? Will they listen? Do they believe what I’m telling them? This year it’s a bit more nerve-wracking, because of anyone I’ll have this conversation with, the most important to me is my little sister.

This conversation is something I do to ensure to others that they are not alone. That there are always options. That you can do anything and you can take your time. This conversation I have is important. It’s necessary, and not just for me, but for everyone I have it with too.

l prepare every year, every day, and every minute to talk to someone about my failed attempts at suicide. Not because I do it for attention, not because I want people to feel pity, but because I want people to realize that there is always a better option. Always.

I speak openly about my depression because it’s something that follows me like starving dog, waiting for some inconvenience to throw it a bone. Sometimes, it gets to the bone before I can pick it up: I call those my sad days. But sometimes, I get to the bone first, and even though I feel that it could just be easier to let the poor dog eat instead of adding that bone to the others I carry, I keep it with me.

I like to think of my attempts as times when all the bones I carry have fallen out of my arms. That metaphorical dog races forward and swallows the bones whole, getting larger and larger and making me feel smaller and smaller until I am stuck under its paw and I can’t move. I can’t talk. I can’t shower, or change, or read or write or cry or feel. All I can do is hope that by some miracle the dog shrinks again, or I can push him off.

But the thing about an exponentially larger dog standing on top of you is: you can’t move him alone.

The first time the dog grew and I was trapped, my best friend helped save me. I hadn’t been able to talk to her about it, but she knew something was wrong. So she called me one night, while I was preparing to let the dog finally suffocate me, and she asked to just talk. So we did. Well she did, but eventually her inability to get off the line and just let me be wore me down and I broke. I told her everything and I cried for hours to her, and together we pushed the dog off. I felt myself grow again, and I knew he had shrunk.

The second time, another friend saved me. The dog had grown out of control, because I myself had been feeling him. I didn’t see a reason to stop feeding him, and it took a little weight off me but somehow always added more. This friend was talking to me online. I kept acting like everything was okay, contributing as best I could to the conversation, all the while staring at a very nice knife my brother had given me to keep myself safe from any threat or danger. But wasn’t I a threat or danger? That’s what the dog was telling me. He was becoming the voice in my head, and for just one moment, I let him slip out into my message. She instantly raced over to my house and demanded a sleepover. She stayed with me the whole night. Protected me from myself and the dog. And in the morning she pushed him off me, and helped me understand that I wasn’t the voice in my head.

The last time, my mother saved me. She doesn’t know it, but she did. I had the worst day in my life so far. The whole day everyone around me had been throwing the bones to the dogs, ripping them from my arms and tossing them to him without even a glance. School had been hard, work had been worse, and my friends had been awful. I can’t remember what the plan really was, but I remember my mother asking me if I was okay. Not just once, but like 400 times. I was getting annoyed, the first real emotion since everything started. And then I broke. She held me as I cried, rocked me back to safety, and reminded me that I was loved and cared for. She brought me up, and pushed the dog down.

He hasn’t been back since. I know he’s there, but he can’t get strong again. I was 18 on my last attempt, which is why I talk about this. Why I tell everyone I have depression, why I’m unafraid to share my story. Because the truth is you can’t carry everything by yourself. You can’t feed your own dog (please feed your real dog this one is obviously metaphorical) and you can’t fight him alone. You need help, love and guidance and there will always be someone who is willing to help you.

Don’t be afraid to say you’re crazy. Don’t be afraid to say you’re scared. It’s hard now but what’s on the other side isn’t any better.