March 2007-present

At the age of twelve, I was diagnosed with bipolar depression.

My parents, who had never understood or dealt with mental illness personally, were unable to wrap their heads around what this meant. Initially, they believed it to be some bogus diagnosis to allow me to get by with my horrendous attitude.

They sought answers from the most ridiculous sources.

I remember my father leading me, one Sunday evening, into the Preacher's office to discuss my predicament. The Preacher offered a few verses to look into and simply advised us to pray that God would heal me. He even placed me on the prayer list.

I was embarrassed.

My dad, not one to understand such things, went off and told practically everyone in the bloody church. People were approaching me with scowls and grimaces, holding up their haughty heads as they explained that I couldn't possibly be depressed and I was faking it for attention.

Another ridiculous source my parents sought answers from came in the form of my grandfather. He, although undiagnosed, exhibited major signs and symptoms of manic depression. Unfortunately, he, too, was a minister, and a very conservative one at that.

He told me that if I didn't get my act together, he would beat me until I straightened out.

My parents, realising he was of no use in my situation, finally allowed me to take medicine.

I was fifteen.

The medicine did me no good.

In fact, the medicine made everything worse.

My moods changed at the drop of a hat. I was either exhausted, lethargic, miserable, irritable, angry and unable to face the world, or I was up and going, feeling random bursts of energy which allowed me to get things done. Following my outbursts of energy came the lethargy.

It was an endless, miserable cycle.

On top of my inability to grasp my emotions, I had dark thoughts of If I were to cut myself with this knife, would anyone care? Or better yet, If I were to die right now, I doubt anyone would come to my funeral.

And so began the self-harm.

It started out small.

First, I stopped eating breakfast. Then, I wasn't eating breakfast or lunch. At dinner, I would eat just a little to make is seem as if I had eaten enough, and I would throw the rest away when my parents' backs were turned.

Then I stopped eating altogether.

I was, at the time, sixteen.

One night, while my parents were away, I decided I would end it all.

Throughout his life, my dad has struggled with heart problems. Because of his heart problems, he needed prescriptions. I picked out four pills—enough to cause some serious damage—from his bottles and seven from mine.

I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and I took all the pills at once.

At first, I didn't think it had worked. I felt fine.

And so, I stood up and reached to unlock the door when I began to feel clammy and tired, my hands began to shake, and my vision blurred. My lungs wouldn't take in oxygen. Dark spots filled my eyes, and before I knew it, I was in the floor. The worst part was that I had hit my head on the edge of the tub as I went down.

I woke up a month later.

I had suffered a major concussion, and my body was severely malnourished.

I was physically weak.

I could barely lift my head on my own.

My parents, when they discovered that I had awakened, became hysterical, sobbing and squeezing, and bawling enough to wake the dead.

We were a mess.

I was a mess.

My mum begged me to promise that I wouldn't do it again.

I could only lie.

I did it again. The only thing was—I was eighteen, in uni, and it was the weekend. My dorm-mate went back home for the weekend, and so I was left alone in my dorm.

Foolishly, I hadn't been taking my meds in weeks, so I was feeling especially—off. However, I saw no need to relay this to anyone.

I had jokingly told my dorm-mate "Don't expect me to be here when you get back!"

If only she knew how much that statement was the truth.

This time, instead of pills, I had managed to get ahold of something much better. My dad, as a precaution, had gifted me a small switchblade when I first entered uni. He said it was "to help keep the boys away." Little did he know, I would attempt to use it for a much more—sinister purpose.

Without getting too into the details, I stabbed myself.

I was found by a friend who wanted to have a last-minute sleepover in my dorm.

She was scared out of her mind when she found me, and she contacted campus security, who contacted the local hospital.

I almost died.

When I first woke up, I was absolutely pissed that I wasn't dead. I hated my friend for finding me. I hated everyone who had a part in saving me. I hated that I was still alive.

It goes without saying that I didn't learn my lesson that time either.

In fact, I attempted suicide three more times after that.

At the moment, I'm grateful that all my attempts failed. However, I know that one day—possibly soon—I won't be so grateful and I'll try again.

While I am getting better, I know that I'll never be able to fully heal. This is something that's been with me for most of my life, and it will continue to do so until I die.

I just hope that someone out there will read this and know that suicide is a selfish thing.

You take your own life to get rid of your own problems without thinking of the repercussions. While, in the moment, it seems like there's nothing left, that suicide is the only way out, but that's not true.

You will always have something or someone there, and that person/thing will help you.

It's like Dumbledore said in Philosopher's Stone, "Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it." While Hogwarts and Dumbledore are fictional, the quote still stands.

It may be hard, but if you ask for help, chances are, someone will be there ready to help you. You have to take that initiative.

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1081 words.