And, Now, I'm 22

**Disclaimer: The following story is a true story. I plan to keep my stories and experiences as non-fiction as I can. This is an official trigger warning to anyone struggling with addiction, depression, suicide, etc. Please know that there is help and you are worth being here. Please know that even if I don't know you personally, I love you and you are loved.**

White walls, white floors, white pillows, white space. That's what it feels like to feel nothing. White. Bareness. Stripped of all colors.

I come from incredibly humble beginnings. A 15-year-old, drug addict biological mother, a biological father that never laid eyes on me, and an escaped soul from one drugged induced night. You could say I'm down to Earth.

I remember the day when my thoughts escaped my pint up solitude and an idea formed. A good idea, I thought at the time. I needed a way to run away. I needed a way to feel something... anything. I needed control over my actions, thoughts, hunger, emotions, everything. I was clawing for a way to leave my body, if only for a moment.

I had known so many before me, fellow peers, TV show actors, books, that did this exact thing. It can't be that bad... could it?

The night was a rainy one. The Monsoons were in full swing at this point. Thunder, lighting, rain falling hard on my little blue trailer home.

“What could I use?” I thought to myself. “A knife would seem too aggressive,” I mumbled under my breath. Just then, I knew what would be easiest to use. At this point, tears are racing down my face. I was desperate to disappear.

I stumbled into my bathroom and I search for my object of choice under my bathroom sink. Such a simple object you would never think to use... at least I didn't.

“Finally.” I breathe a hard sigh of relief, followed by another shallow breath.

While holding my object in my right hand, I started the shower with my left. Yes, I know it was raining—but, I didn't care.

I anxiously waited for the shower to become hot. I stripped my clothes, and I entered the shower. I closed my eyes and allowed the comforting water to wrap its hot arms around me. The only loving touch I remember at this point.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have family who I now know to love me; however, at this time, I pushed everyone away. Which, I guess you could say that it was my fault, but, have you ever considered how mental illness can mess with your head?

Anyways, back to the story.

The hot water covered me with wet kisses. I feel a sense of relaxation. Once more a sigh escapes my shaking lips. I kneel down until my back is being supported by one of the walls in the shower. I sit there for a moment. The object in hand, half examining it. Getting familiar with my new best friend.

Did I have doubts? No. Second thoughts? No. I wanted this to be my control, my way to stop feeling and just become numb.

I close my eyes and decide not to dig too deep. I was always terrified to go too far. I never wanted to lay from my own hands.

As soon as I opened my eyes, my tears were able to stream rapidly. Anger quickly embraced all of my senses. At that moment, I couldn't control my movements anymore.

The object smoothly and delicately danced along my pale skin with fast progression. The metal repeated it's actions, over and over—but, I couldn't feel anything.

Once my anger subsided, I felt like the world was coming back into focus. Blood began to be washed away from the steaming water. It was a beautiful, crimson color. I could breathe again. Even though the thought passed once or twice if I even wanted to anymore.

I know... dark.

That's how I felt. This was the first time that I ever craved into my own almost perfect skin. After that, hurting myself became an obsession.

I thought about causing harm to myself constantly. It was better to hurt myself than to hurt others, right? You could say there was a solid hatred towards myself.

My hatred became so strong that I couldn't even bear to see myself in any mirrors, reflects, puddles. Nothing.

“At least I hated myself and not anyone else,” I remember thinking.

Time went on and I would attempt new things, burning, laxatives, knives, punching, pulling my hair. Anything to cause me harm and to ensure I wasn't being a selfish person.

I put everyone else before me, always. A thought of my needs and wants never would cross my mind. I was broken and knew that no one really wanted me here. I was just a mistake. My soul was never meant to roam this Earth.

At least, those were my 12-year-old thoughts. I remember thinking things like, “I'm just here to help others. I'm not that special. I'm worthless. I'm a pile of trash. I'm nothing to my family—I'm just the adopted freak. I'm not blood.” All of these thoughts would dance through my mind on a daily basis.

Negative self-talk, always. Even while I was sleeping.

I came to a point where cutting myself wasn't enough. I began taking prescription pills and mixing them with other pills. Pain medications, sleeping pills, etc. In hindsight, I should have been gone a long time ago with just these lethal concoctions; and, don't believe that I just took one of each. No, sir. I would combine at least 5-7 painkillers with 5-7 sleeping pills.

It's actually quite amazing that I'm still breathing today.

Even knowing this fact, I never wanted to kill myself; however, I was ready to die. To some of you, that statement will make no sense, but, to me; This was my world. I was praying for a heart attack, praying that someone would kidnap me and kill me, praying to get hit by a car, I even prayed for a coma.

I prayed for death. I remember crying so hard and begging God to just take me and to stop letting me be his own twisted joke. That's how low I thought of myself.

I remember thinking that one day soon I would get my wish. I would be six feet under and so many people would be so happy.

Sick, right? Welcome to depression with, I guess you would say, “suicidal thoughts and actions.”

The actual sick thing is that I never expected to live past 16. That was the latest I thought I would ever live. I knew that I would eventually do something stupid and get killed, or I would eventually work up the courage and assist in my self-inflicted murder.

Clearly, that wasn't the case, or you wouldn't be reading this right now. Hi, like the story so far?

Do you want to know what the REALLY sick thing is, though? I never planned to make it this far. Which means, I had no plans for my future, no goals, aspirations. I didn't know for the longest time what I wanted to be or what I want to do with myself after I decided that I wanted to live.

These demons have haunted me for a long time. My depression comes and says, “Hello,” every now and again and my self-worth is questioned every so often. Sometimes I want to hurt myself again, and sometimes I feel like the world would be a better place without me.

Rest assured that these are only moments of self-doubt until I remind myself what I've been working so hard to become. What I worked so hard to overcome.

And, now, I'm 22.

I've realized that this life is worth living and there are so many wonderful, crazy things that living offers a person.

I know that what I write is easier said than done, in this case, easier written than done, but regardless of that fact—I have learned that I am worth it. I'm worth breathing. I'm worth loving, and so are you.