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I recently read Amanda Stark's poem Suicide Note and it gave me the strength to admit something I have only started to talk about with those closest to me. Make sure you take the time to read Amanda's poems from her RE: SURGENCE; poems about mental illness.

But first, I feel the need to explain the big semicolon. Or better yet, I'll let a organization dedicated to mental health awareness and suicide prevention explain it.

The following information is from the Project Semicolon website (About Us page):

The semicolon, a punctuation mark that represents a pause rather than an ending, encapsulates our ethos. Just as an author uses a semicolon to continue a sentence rather than concluding it, we use this symbol to remind everyone that their life story continues even through moments of struggle. Our community embraces the concept that “Your story isn’t over yet.”

I know I could have explained it to you, but no one could have done it better, especially not me. Take the time to explore the website and learn more about the story behind this organization.

Now this is my story.

Turning double digits for the first time was not as glorious for me as it was for other people. By this point in my life, I had lost a lot of people to death, be it through cancer, sudden illness, and dementia. I was struggling with the beginning of negative views of my body image while going through the start of puberty. My friends were changing too and I was learning to navigate a world as a budding woman.

To say it was overwhelming was an understatement.

I'm not sure what put me at the edge exactly; I tend not to dwell on that too much. It was like a light switch stuck on the off position, held down by what I guess would have been my first real bout of depression.

When the first of my suicidal thoughts occurred, I remember feeling alone, confused, and ashamed. Some nights I cried myself to sleep, hoping my bad thoughts would disappear during the nights. All of this fed my negative thoughts about myself and life, starting up a vicious cycle.

Before I continue, I should state this: I never hurt myself, there was no plan in place. There were ideas, but something I couldn't put my finger on for a while stopped the ideas from turning into intent.

I didn't want anyone to find me dead.

My family had gone through a lot in the past year, and I couldn't be another thing on the list. The guilt of being found dead by anyone in my family, especially my siblings, overwhelmed the desire to die.

Looking back it was a big indication I did not actually want to die, I just wanted all the crap to stop and dying seemed to be my only way out. Also, so many people around me, at that point, viewed suicide as completely selfish, and I did not want to die with people thinking I was being selfish. It was later that I learned that suicide is not an selfish action; for most, like me, it seemed the only way out of a horrible set of circumstances.

In time, my family found out that I was (or had been) contemplating suicide, all at different times.

My mom was the first.

Mom had tried to get me to write in a diary (or journal) for the past couple of years and failed. Even to this day, I absolutely dread the idea of a journal. But for whatever reason, one day, after months of masking, I wrote an entry in my diary. Then I walked from one end of our house to the other end with tears running down my face. I tossed my diary on my parents' bed and before my mom could say anything, I ran back to the safety of my comforter cave.

When my mom came and got me, I was sobbing silently, arms tightly holding a stuffed toy I still have to this day. (You can't get rid of the toy your mom give you.) She turned me to face her, but I kept my head down, not wanting to see her disappointment. So, she held me as my tears streamed faster and I vocalized my apologies.

Then my mom, with sadness choking her words, told me she wasn't angry and I didn't need to be ashamed of my feelings. She told me she was in my corner and for the first time, I didn't feel alone with my suicidal thoughts anymore.

In time, I dug my way out of the dark pit.

It wasn't until years later I told my siblings.

Since there is more than my own stories involved, I won't go into detail about the conversation and what lead up to the conversation. There was a lot of crying, hugging, and telling one another to never be ashamed of our darker feelings.

To this day, I am still not sure if my dad knows, although I suspect he does because I was ten when this all started. My parents were open about certain conversations involving all of us kids. Otherwise, it hasn't been a straight-forward conversation I am ready to have with him yet. Maybe someday.

So where am I now?

I still have my tough days, though no where near as horrible as the days when my suicidal thoughts took over my mind. Slowly, I am working toward being more open about my mental health struggles, especially when it comes to suicidal thoughts.

Part of that journey was my poetry collection instead of therapy: poems and lyrics about struggling and healing. (Yes, this is a shameless self-plug.) What was initially just supposed to be about gaining back my confidence in my writing became a stepping stone to being more open about a big part of my truth. Since then, I've made a point to write as often as I can.

Sometimes, though, like recently, I battle with my mental health. During those times, I lack the motivation to do anything with my writing. I used to beat myself about it and would sometimes push through, but now I realize I need to be patient with myself and take my time, because that is when my best work shines through.

If you are struggling with your mental health, know you can talk to anyone. A friend, a family member, or you can call/text the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

You don't have to go at it alone.