The Darkest Hour.

TW: Suicide and suicidal ideation.

When I was thirteen years old, I wanted to kill myself.

"Were you being bullied?"

"Were you being hurt?"

"That's far too young to be suicidal."

"That's a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"You didn't have anything to be that stressed out about at that age."

And yet, at thirteen years old on Christmas Day in my grandmother's bathroom, I was looking inside the cabinet wondering if there were any pills inside that would kill me. Something that would happen quickly and without pain, but something that would take me off this earth. I can't really explain why I wanted to die then. I just knew I didn't want to be alive anymore.

I struggled with these feelings for months. My friends noticed and they didn't ask the right questions. They believed me when I said I was okay. My parents didn't see the extent of my troubles. I was reclusive, pretending to read or listen to music. I didn't feel the joy anymore. When Christmas came around (my favorite holiday every single year), I felt empty inside. I sat in the living room and felt a void inside myself that even the joy of the holiday season couldn't fill. I felt bereft.

When I realized far I'd fallen, I was afraid. I knew that suicide was "a permenant solution to a temporary problem" and all that. But still, I couldn't cope. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't shake myself out of this funk I'd slipped into so quickly and unknowingly. Still, my fear kept me from making a mistake I couldn't take back.

At thirteen years old, I wanted to die. But I wanted to live, too.

My fear led me to Mrs. Morrison.

Mrs. Morrison was the guidence counselor at our middle school. She'd seen me several times for a variance of struggles I'd experienced over the years. She was a friendly sight, a face that reminded me that I wasn't alone. A face that I trusted. She had fluffy brown hair, big beautiful blue eyes and a big smile with perfectly straight teeth. She was tall and always elegantly dressed. She was never short tempered and always willing to listen any time I needed someone to talk to.

Mrs. Morrison helped me save myself from my darkest hours. When I admitted to her that I felt suicidal, I couldn't look her in the face. I felt ashamed to admit to her my darkest secret. It felt shameful to be so low. I dreamt of death and I constantly wished to fall into my own void and never wake up again. She didn't sigh. She didn't tell me I was wrong. She didn't pity me. She took me seriously. She told me she was going to help me.

Mrs. Morrison introduced me to Sarah.

Sarah saved my life.

Sarah was a counselor offerd by the school for troubled kids. On certain days of the week, I was permitted to skip study hall and go straight to the outdoor trailor, where Sarah was waiting for me. My teachers knew I'd be gone but they never knew where I was going (looking back, I have a feeling they knew even if they weren't told). I was given complete privacy and anonymity to handle my mental health crisis.

Sarah was a wonderful human being. She had long, wispy blonde hair and her teeth stuck out just a little bit. She had small blue eyes that noticed every single change in posture that I made. She was heavy set, which comforted me and reminded me of my mother. She listened. She never talked over me. And she helped me work through my feelings. She gave me her full attention at a time that I constantly felt that nobody else was listening. She validated my feelings when it felt as though nobody else cared or understood any of them. She helped me devise coping mechanisms for the days when I didn't feel like I had control anymore. Over the course of several months, I saw Sarah in that trailer and I enjoyed it.

I felt the darkness release from my body.

I felt the heaviness in my chest lighten a little more each day.

I felt the fear start to fade into the background.

I found my joy again.

I filled the void I'd felt in my heart with love and compassion and a new sense of self worth. I understood, after months, that I'd never wanted to die, I wanted to be saved. I wanted to be heard. I wanted to be appreciated. I wanted to be equal to those in my life, not inferior. I joined the drama club and landed a part in the play. I stopped writing painful poems in my secret notebooks and started writing short stories that brought me happiness. I felt praise from my teachers and accepted it more easily.

My pain began to dissipate and my former self returned slowly.

Looking back, I want to hold my thirteen-year-old self. I want to cradle her in my arms and let her cry. I want to sew up her wounds to stop them from bleeding. I want to whisper in her ear how far she's come and how much she has to live for that she doesn't even know yet. I wanted to speak words of love into her, to fill her to the brim with all the words she was deserving of to hear but never did. I wanted to weep for her pain and take it all into myself.

I remember her well. I know she's still within me and she's stronger than she ever knew. The little goth girl is still inside me and she's still breathing because she asked for help when she needed it.

I say that Sarah saved me because she gave me the tools to look beyond my pain and to find the light at the end of a very dark, bleak, and lonely tunnel. But the truth is that I saved myself. If I'd given in to my darkness, my parents would have planned a funeral for their daughter. My siblings would've mourned a lost sister. My friends would've cried over a friend they loved and cherished, even if they didn't always say it. My teachers would've mourned a good student who was bright and funny and positive.

My fiancé would never have known me. My dogs would never have loved me. My nieces would only ever have known the past version of me, never the present. They'd have heard stories of who I was, but also who I never became. It would've been a mark of pain on everyone in my life that never fully went away.

I'm thankful every day I didn't take those pills. I'm thankfully every day that I had the courage to find help. I'm thankful to Mrs. Morrison and to Sarah for listening when it felt like no one could hear me or see me. I'm thankful to everyone in my life for giving me just enough happiness to pull me out of the darkest hour.

And I'm thankful to you for listening to this story.

Journaling is my coping strategy. It's the way I expel my past and forgive myself for the mistakes I may have made. It's my creative outlet. It's where I go when I need to dump the excess of my mind.

ADHD is a bear of a disorder to cope with, but this helps tremendously. You help. So, thank you for coming on this journey with me.

If you're feeling suicidal, please take the first step and get help. You are not alone. I didn't have the suicide hotline number to call back then, but we do now. Please call. Please know that any single person in your life, stranger or friend, would rather listen to your struggles while you're alive than listen to your eulogy when you're gone.

800-273-8255

You are worthy of love and happiness. You are not alone. Xoxo.