When was the first time you thought about taking your own life?

Need Help? Contact a suicide hotline if you need someone to talk to. If you have a friend in need of help, please encourage that person to contact a suicide hotline as well.

– Worldwide
In general, if you're outside the US, numbers for your country are here: Help a friend – Befrienders Worldwide. You can also e-mail jo@samaritans.org to talk to someone or go to http://www.samaritans.org/how-we… to speak with someone.

– United States
Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255).
Para español, llame al 1-888-628-9454.

– Canada
Locate a crisis centre in your area and at The Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention (link to: Find A Crisis Centre). For youth under 20, you can call the Kids Help Phone at 1-800-668-6868.

– India
Visit AASRA or call their 24/7 helpline at +91-22-27546669 or +91-22-27546667. You can also e-mail aasrahelpline@yahoo.com.

– UK 116 123 (to reach the Samaritans in the UK)
– France (33) 01 46 21 46 46
– Australia 13 11 14

20 Replies to “When was the first time you thought about taking your own life?”

  1. My daughter felt it I remember at a very very young age. Her emotions over a situation overwhelmed her. Holding her close, I reminded her of how disappointing and hurtful her loss would be to me, and more importantly to God who made her special and has a plan for her life.

    My heart goes out to you if you find yourself in a situation where you want to give up, instead, Hold On to Hope!

    You are in control of your thoughts. They come when you are overwhelmed with pain and dispair at a moment in time when some retreat to a dangerous place of emotional overload. The pain and anger of it triggers hopelessness and thoughts of finding a quick fix. Please know these thoughts are momentary and not the answer. God made you special and will not allow you to go through more than what you are able to endure. Hold On to Hope!

    Rest in his promise. Hold On to the knowledge that whatever the situation, it is temporary and in the promise that God has a way out designed especially for you, a plan for your life. Endure with this hope and never give in to false feelings of hopelessness.

    Be well, think thoughts of all the possibilities that God has in mind you. List your gifts and talents, hopes and dreams, look at your list whenever you feel low.

    My daughter grew up and is a very successful business woman leading many workers. Don't miss your blessing.

  2. I was 12 years old. My new step dad had just beat the crap out of me for the first time. My biological father was a pedophile but never violent, I had always been able to get away from him when he was getting weird. So I had never experienced such rage and violence. My step dad threw me on the floor and kicked me repeatedly in the back and ribs, then dragged me by my hair all over the house, screaming and yelling and calling me horrible names. My mom did nothing to protect me. After it was over and they had gone to bed, I searched the whole house looking for pills or something that I could take to kill myself with. All I found was a bottle of aspirin that only had about a dozen pills in it. I knew that it wasn't enough to do the job. Oh, and my huge crime that got me in trouble to begin with? I had been sent outside after dark to break up and shovel all the ice and snow off of the deck, and when I came inside, my step dad told me to get back to the job I was doing before he sent me out there, and I was so frightened by the way he was yelling at me that I couldn't remember that I was cleaning claws before. He'd had me cleaning the extra fur and skin off of a big jar of porcupine claws. He made a living by hunting and selling furs, claws, teeth, etc. So he beat me up because I had to ask what I was supposed to be getting back to doing. After it was over, and I could only find that aspirin, I thought about just going outside where the temperature was in the teens and just laying down, but it was SOOO cold, I chickened out.

  3. In retrospect, this was a very stupid reason to consider suicide. But you have to understand that it was the last straw.

    ICT (computer) class, year 9, and the teacher had left the class of more than 20 boarding school students alone to with internet connected computers. There was a girl in my class, who happened to be sitting next to me, that was discussing a porn site she had come accross which was made by a girl that was barely 18. And as kids 12-14 are, we were curious. For some reason the school had not protected the servers from this, but they had from YouTube.

    Honestly, I cannot remember the reason that this exploration of pornographic content happened to shit from her computer screen to mine, but it did. And when it did, people gathered in awe of the now spreadeagled girl that was licking a lollipop suggestively on the screen. From there, a few other sites were opened by this girl who obviously had a disturbing experience in the forte. For the purpose of the rest of this, I'll call her AY.

    I blame myself alot for this because I let it happen. It hasn't occurred to me that there was a reason she had used my computer instead of her own, and I too was enamoured by what I was seeing as it was the first time I had come accross content this diversely vulgar. But as was expected, we heard the faint sound of footsteps coming into the computer room, and the wrongness of what we were doing very quickly occurred to us.

    Everyone scrambled back to their seats, AY rushed to settle in hers, and I was left with the only evidence if what had happened. By then I had not yet discovered the speed and accessibility of shortcut keys, so I scrambled to shut down all the windows that were scattered on my screen, but failed to close the very first one before the teacher who had entered, a math teacher, saw was on my screen.

    He regarded me with a confused but slightly disgusted look, and although I had been deeply embarrassed several times before this, I was overwhelmed with a shame that I truly didn't expect. Sex was bad. Any interest in it was bad, and the fact that I was a girl who appeared to be interested in sex was doubly bad. I knew that, and I felt it after I was caught, but I felt temporary relief in believing that it was at least the end of it. He would go on to not look me in the eye for 3 months after this, but his apparent contempt I could deal with. It as what came after that almost killed me.

    The news of my being caught spread almost instantaneously, and by the end of the day, the story had been contorted to include a few testimonies that I had been masturbating to the porn in class! By the end of the day when I got back to the dorm, everyone was talking about it, and the stares bore holes into every part of my body.

    9:30pm, and somehow my room was filled with more than 20 other girls that came to shame me for what I had done. Now these gathered shame fests, under the guise “interventions” were not new to me, and I had in fact had 3 others in the 2 months prior to this one. They had been on other things that included how ugly my hair was becoming, how unkempt I appeared, and how my not being attracted to any boys in the school probably meant that I was a lesbian, and lesbians were a sin. The sad fact was that they had become such a regular occurrence in my life that I actually believed that the people that gathered around to pick at everything potentially wrong with me were trying to help. I should probably mention here that this was not something that was exclusive to me as others had been nitpicked too, but their frequency was. I was easy to bully because I let it happen, and soon it became a sport that everyone partook in.

    The berating started as I left the shower and was taken aback by the sheer amount of people that had come to see it happen.

    “I told you guys she was a lesbian” one girl said. “They're usually ugly and buff.” the crowd laughed as this somehow signalled that everything was on the table to say to me.

    “You know you're going to hell? You should just become a prostitute so you can get there faster” another yelled.

    “Don't you hate yourself enough?”

    “How can you be so disgusting Uju. Every one knows you're…different but we didn't think you were this bad”

    Then to my utter surprise, one of my 3 roommates who I had thought was on my side joined in with “I knew oh. I always knew she would be a sex worker. You should see how interested she is in sex. I bet she's even tasted jizz before!”

    That was when I knew it had all gone wrong. I tried to explain what had happened, but was promptly shut up by someone who claimed to be there and saw me shove my hand into my skirt. But it wasn't true! So I quickly put on the nightgown I had laid on my bed, trying to ignore the vile words that were being directed at me and the bellows of laughter that followed. I attempted to run out of the room but was pushed back to the centre for the ridicule to continue. But I fought my way through all of them because I had to go get AY. She would tell them the truth.

    To my shock, the umpteenth of the night, I found her on the floor of her room surrounded by at least 7 other girls that seemed to be comforting her. She had somehow fallen desperately sick in the time between the computer class and that evening, and had told everyone that I tried to put the blame of my acts on her. She looked like she had been crying, and as I walked into the room, I was met with stares like daggers and a continuation of the insults I had just escaped.

    “What are you doing here you cow?! Look at what you've done to AY!” one of the comforters screamed at me.

    I told them that I wanted her to come and tell the truth. I didn't do what they said I did, and she knew it. But this request was met with a reply that sent me into a spiral.

    One of the girls stood up from her position, and pushed me out of the room before saying “Ashewo (meaning prostitute)” to my face and spitting on my night gown.

    From then on I was in a daze, an almost trance-like state infact. It felt like I was watching myself in a movie somehow. I didn't have many friends, but I went looking for the ones I did have in their rooms. And although I didn't find anyone, everywhere I went I was met with similar insults or laughter. One of them had even said to me that the person I was looking for had run away from me. I found out days after this that one of the people I considered my best friends had gathered all the others that I was closest to, 3 of them, to hide in a place that I couldn't find them without telling them why they were hiding so that wouldn't find them when I needed to. Thought it would be funnier if I didnt have help. Friends am I right?

    I went to the dorm mistress to ask to call my parents, and was refused because it was too late. This pushed me to tears in front of her, which made her even more rooted in her stance to not let me call them. Not having your parents available to you was part of the boarding school experience afterall.

    I was trapped in a place I couldn't run away from, with people who had found a justifiable reason to hate and ridicule me. The only place I could go to was back to my room, which was now less crowded, save for about 10 girls who were dedicated enough to wait for my inevitable return. I covered myself in my blanket and my face with my pillow to drown out the horrible words being directed at me. Cheap slut, whore, prostitute, freak, unlovable, ugly, disgusting, worth of death and subsequently external burning in hell fire. But my attempts to shield myself failed and the insults filtered in as they dragged my blanket off me repeatedly and pulled away my pillow.

    I was spit on a few more times that night, and as the lights went out and my torturers left, I kept crying till about after midnight. I didn't want to be me anymore. I hated that I was trapped in this life I hadn't asked for, and I didn't want to wake up to it. Then suddenly, an overwhelming numbness overtook me and i knew what i had to do. In the dorm, there was a dinning hall with a small kitchen area whose bottom drawers housed cutting knives and chopping boards. I had always thought keeping them there was a very unsafe thing to do, but I knew then that they were for me. To do what a few girls had suggested that night, what one had worded as “ending it now before my life became sadder”. Standing up from my bed, I almost floated to the dining hall, accepting my fate to come all the way to the drawer. But when I opened it, I found spoons. I looked everywhere for the knives I knew had been kept there, or any other sharp untensil I could make do with. But all I found were spoons.

    Frustrated and slightly amused that I had found a way to screw up killing myself, I resorted to mixing all the dangerous substances I could find in mine and my roommate's tiny lockers, which included clothe bleach, toilet cleaner, rubbing alcohol, and all the soap I could find. But I knew it wouldn't work because I had let myself feel something when i was humoured by the spoons. I somehow knew that I had subconsciously sabotaged the attempt, perhaps not mixed in enough substances that would actually fatally harm me. But i drank the cup of mixture anyway and hoped for the best, or in this case the worst.

    Waking up the next morning was the most disappointed I had felt in my short 13 years of life, and as everyone went into the hall for morning prayers, I laid there thinking about why I had been given this life. This particular one that only seemed to bring me pain.

    The next few days were filled with boys who suddenly felt brazen enough to either ask me to perform sexual acts on them, or touch parts of my body without my consent because, as many of them put it, “I know you like it”. I never even danced on socials! I literally brought books to read while people were gyrating!

    The weeks after that were hard, but less and less so. And even though the event scarred me, eventually I felt grateful that I had not completely succumb to the hate from those people.

    I'm sorry this story is so long and such a bummer. I did warn you it was stupid.

  4. It was probably around July of 2007. Or perhaps June? I’m not quite certain.

    The setting, a 2000 Chevy Cavalier, complete with absolutely horrible fabric interior and the constant stench of cigarette smoke, on a destination back home from Walmart.

    I don’t remember what I whined about to set her off. It was something money related though. Stupid me wanted something, and for all my supposed intellect, I was a slave to childish desires. Perhaps a book, or a game. Something frivolous. Money was tight, even I knew that, and in her frustration, she slammed on the brakes, pulling over on the side of the road, and ordered me out of the car.

    I stared at her, searching her face for any sign that she didn’t mean it, that it was just like the many, many times she’d threatened to smack me so hard my head would spin. No luck. Instead, she shouted at me to get the fuck out of her face and reached for the cigarette lighter. You know the kind, right? They’re little holes in the car that when you depress the plunger, the metal rod heats up, so you can, aptly, light your cigarette. Now we use them to charge phones and GPSs. Maybe she really was just going to light a cigarette; heavens know I stressed her out enough to merit one. But I scrambled to unbuckle and get out of the back seat before I could find out for sure.

    Soon as I’d shut the door, she sped off. Now, the road she left me on was situated toward, but not quite, the center of town— busy enough to be a staple of most routes, but also enough of a back road to be known primarily by locals. There wasn’t much by way of sidewalk, most of it eroded away because of the unique climate of the New England and the utter lack of care the town put into maintaining it.

    It wasn’t a dead road, but it sure felt like it as I sat on the edge of it, shorts too short to protect my upper thighs from brittle grass and broken concrete digging into them. I stared at the pot-hole ridden street before me with this horrible ache in the center of my chest. That ache seemed to grow with each passing second, reaching upwards into my throat, tightening like a vice, reaching down into my stomach, flipping it and nearly emptying it onto the asphalt.

    I didn’t cry, but my eyes stung and there was a pressure building, building, building, until it nearly consumed me. In a burst of clarity — was it clarity, though? — I stood and looked at the street with some new, darker understanding. It no longer looked forlorn, the dilapidated result of temperature changes, but instead an opportunity.

    Yes, a perfect opportunity. Besides, my mother had obviously tired of me. She was sick of having to feed me, to cater to my selfish desires, of fielding the landmine of public and vocational life with a child dragging her down. And frankly? I was sick of me too.

    It wasn’t a terribly busy street, but, it worked for squirrels. I’d seen my mother run one over once, because the squirrel had gotten midway across the street before foolishly attempting to return back where it came, rather than forward to safety. The squirrel had twitched and spasmed, jerking, up until I couldn’t see it anymore as we drove away, but I was sure that I would have better luck. After all, I was a much larger target. A larger target means a greater chance of hitting something vital, no?

    Unfortunately or fortunately, by the time I’d come to the conclusion and prepared to go lie down in the road, a little under an hour had passed. My mother came back. She apologized for losing her patience with me, that she didn’t mean to, that one would think by now she’d be used to my selfishness. She smiled at me and told me to sit up front with her. Once we got home, she asked, rhetorically, why I didn’t do the smart thing and walk home, because wasn’t I intelligent enough to realize that of course I should have done so, instead of sitting on the side of the road waiting for someone to take pity? She had me apologize to her then sent me to my room to entertain myself until she wanted to see me again.

  5. When I was eleven years old.

    I’m not joking. I wish I was.

    Yes, last year.

    Insert time-whoopy sounds

    When I was ten, I was in a program called the GEP, or “Gifted Education Programme” via a series of tests. I did alright, and got accepted into the programme. I was really excited when I got the letter, because I felt special. Like I was smart. Like I was better than the others.

    I was wrong.

    When I first entered the programme, I could keep up. My grades were lower, yes, but I kept them at an average grade.

    But with the stress came laziness, and other things that develop with stress.

    I procrastinated on homework, got more aggressive, and even developed kleptomania (but that’s a story for another day).

    I was overweight, which did not help my popularity.

    Bullying happened, name calling, and the stress built up.

    Last year, I started to develop fears.

    Fears of being beaten for wrongdoings.

    Fears of being ditched by my friends.

    I lost people close to me.

    And then one day I had enough.

    I had a note and everything, explaining why I was doing it.

    Believe it or not, my weight saved me.

    My plan was to leap off the highest floor of my school, but being so weak and heavy, I couldn't lift myself onto the ledge. And during that time, my heart talked some sense into my brain, holding me back from the edge of darkness.

    So luckily for me, I survived to write this answer.

    If you’re ever even considering suicide, please don't. People love you. And even if you want to die because you think no one loves you, that isn't true. Someone put there still loves you, be it your friend, or your family. If you need a hug, I’m here. Please don't commit suicide. Please don't die.

    <3

  6. Every day, it’s the same.

    Wake up with a feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach. Be driven in to school. Sit in the front of the classroom and hope the teacher would see Hannah poking you in the back of the head with her pencil.

    Class starts. Feel a sharp jab against your scalp. Teacher drones on.

    Five minute break between lessons. Pull out book.

    Matthew wanders past and swats it on the floor. Reach down to pick it up. Matthew stomps on your fingers. Maybe kicks the book across the floor for good measure.

    Retrieve book. Time to retreat to Hogwarts, or Alagaësia, or Pern. Camp Half-Blood, the Inkworld, it doesn’t matter where. Anywhere’s better than here.

    Lunchtime. Every seat is miraculously already taken, even at the table where half the chairs are empty. Sit on the floor. Teacher says you’re not allowed to leave. Eat lunch, listen to the kids at the nearest table twitter about the freak. Skipping lunch altogether would be preferable, but the teachers find you in the bathrooms and drag you back out.

    Recess. Sit under a tree at the far side of the playground. Your best friend is ignoring you in favor of playing with the other girls. Again. It’s another “No Sabrina Day”. Again.

    Nathan wanders past and kicks a rock in your direction. It stings as it bounces off your scraped knee. You flinch, but he seems pretty disinterested in actually coming over here and pulling your hair. You breathe a small sigh of relief. Maybe today won’t be too bad after all.

    You look back at your book and try to rub out the grass stains on the pages from the week before, when Jordan and Skyla dropped it while playing keep-away. Even Harry Potter had to deal with this, you tell yourself. He didn’t just have to deal with hateful classmates, but a hateful government, too.

    But Harry Potter was the Boy Who Lived, and you’re just a scrawny, buck-toothed freak with braces and glasses and no idea what new song the Jonas Brothers released, but hey, you’re good to bully into doing other people’s work for them while they screw around in class.

    You’re not the Chosen One. You’re not a prepubescent criminal mastermind. You’re not a dragon rider, a demigod, or anything remotely special.

    You’re a freak and a loner, your nails are chewed to nubs from stress, you have shadows under your eyes, exhausted from all the nightmares, and you just want to go to sleep and never wake up and never have to deal with this ever again.

    Your ninth birthday party is tomorrow, but your best friend told you it’s another “No Sabrina Day” and she’s the only one who might have even showed up. Not that you would want anyone else to, but that just serves to reinforce how much of a loser you are.

    Your mom picks you up from school at the end of the day and asks you how it was.

    “It was fine,” you lie. You know that if you die, mommy and daddy and baby brother will be sad, so it would probably be a good idea not to.

    But oh, how much you wish you could.

  7. Somewhere in 2011. I was 6.

    It’s the average sibling jealousy phenomenon. My sister had just been born and after six long years of being the centre of the galaxy, I was brought crashing back to earth. I was no longer special, merely second-best to the whims and wants of my darling sister.

    I waited for you with so much anticipation, sister. Way to repay me.

    Since everyone’s focus was on the new exciting baby and nobody cared about me any more and I think some underlying psychological disturbance, the baby led to me crying myself to sleep every night, questioning my own existence and climbing down the top bunk of my double decker bed to go take the shiny kitchen knife. Just to hold it. I did try stabbing myself once, but the knife was too blunt, so I just stood there with tears streaming down my cheeks and doing that ugly-silent cry that you do when you are suddenly hit with a crushing sense of hopelessness in the middle of the night and don’t want to wake your parents.

    So yeah. My first suicidal thoughts and attempt.

  8. The first time I seriously considered taking my own life was a couple years ago when I was struck with a depression so dark and bleak I thought the only possible solution was the permanent solution.

    I didn't eat, I slept way too much; I didn't laugh, I cried. My life was my depression. And for an entire two weeks, I just did not want to exist.

    There's this quote from The Perks of Being a Wallflower which resonates with me:

    I don’t know if you’ve ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or just not be aware that you do exist. Or something like that. I think wanting that is very morbid, but I want it when I get like this. That’s why I’m trying not to think. I just want it all to stop spinning.

    I did just want everything to stop spinning. I pleaded.

    That was probably the darkest time of my life. But I'm better now, and I'm in control again. Nothing's spinning.

    Here's to a healthy state of mind. 🙂

  9. Just saying: I am not suicidal. At least, I don’t think so. I only understood what I was thinking afterwards. I mean, I was in second grade, so about seven or eight years old. I had no idea. Besides, I would never have the guts to actually kill myself, and I’m extremely afraid of death. Also, I’m a thinker, not a doer. (Not good when I’m thinking about whether I should do homework.)

    And compared to the other responses here, I don’t know if I’d ever go through as much as they have. But this is what happened to me:

    I’d been playing soccer since kindergarten. I was pretty good then, because everyone sucked then. But I’ve never been able to… communicate or to work with others, at least not very well.

    That’s when I started to royally suck at soccer. In games, I didn’t yell out to others to pass the ball to me or anything, and in practices, I didn’t talk too much to everyone. I’m like that nobody you only realize has been in your class after you’ve been paired up with her.

    So I could’ve lived with that already, as much as I dislike being bad at things. But my dad always wanted effort. And not running around, waving my arms, or hollering at my teammates didn’t look like effort. I also wasn’t the star player on our team. He came to the majority of my games, and afterward, he’d start shouting at me in the drive home. I’d noticed that he didn’t yell so much when other people were around, including my family.

    I started looking forward to the Saturdays when my dad had to work, when my mom would have to bring me to the game and watch me. I’d also keep trying to get more than just him to watch me play. Remember: more people = less shouting, for the car ride, at least. Of course, I also started checking the weather channel stuff on Thursdays, hoping that it’d be raining by Saturday.

    Once, as we were driving home (my dad and I), and parked into our driveway, we saw two people walking by. Surprise, surprise! (This isn’t sarcasm, I seriously wasn’t expecting it.) There was one of my teammates, a girl I didn’t particularly like, walking by our house with her mom. My dad also recognized her and loudly said, “Hi,” or something like that. They waved back. What was I doing? I stayed in the car, not wanting to have to be forced to greet them. After about thirty seconds or so, they walked by our house, out of sight.

    The moment they were out of sight, I started regretting not saying hi. The reason being my dad. I don’t remember clearly, but he said (yelled, maybe) something along the lines of:

    “You didn’t even say hi to them you’re worthless blah blah blah and you don’t deserve this life and how well we’ve treated you blah blah blah and you don’t ever even try…”

    You know, typical stuff. But what kept riling me up was that a) I was a second-grader and I really wanted approval at that age, b) I was a sensitive little seven-or-eight year old! I didn’t like being yelled at, and c) I really was trying.

    So when I went to bed that night, I just kept looking out my window and I was wondering what would happen if I jumped out of it. My bedroom is on the second floor of my house, and there’s stone underneath my window, three stories below (where my room is at, it’s a longer fall).

    I’d recently read Tom Sawyer (yay to the nerdy little second-grader!), and was remembering the part of the book where Tom had thought about drowning himself or something because his Aunt Polly had accused him of breaking the bowl of sugar, which he had not done. I remembered these words from the book (sorry if I’m wrong, I haven’t read the book in a while and don’t have it right next to me now): “How she would regret… She’ll be sorry!” Then it went on to say that she would cry over his body, etc, etc. That sort of stuff. And I wanted my dad to regret.

    I was thinking that if I jumped, I’d probably die. However, I was wondering whether or not the fall was high enough, because an attempt at killing oneself (I still didn’t think of it as suicide) would probably not have the effect that I’d wanted. Either it happens or it doesn’t happen, if you get what I mean. I wanted everyone to regret.

    That’s when I realized, Wait. If I jumped, I wouldn’t be able to see the results. I wouldn’t be able to see how everyone would react. I actually remember thinking this: I wish I had two lives. Because then I could jump, and then wake up later and see how much they regret!

    So maybe I was a messed up child. Whatever. As I said, I’m a thinker, not a doer. I never even went up to the window, I stayed in bed while I was thinking all of this. Then, I decided that I didn’t want to do it, because what’s the point of making them “regret” (sorry, I used that same word too many times so far) if I didn’t get to see them all upset over my death?

    I’m not suicidal anymore. After second grade, I still thought about the window, but less often. The idea sort of dwindled off. I don’t even think about it anymore, haven’t for the past four years. (I’d played soccer until seventh grade, but by then, my dad had given up. Yay! Fourth grade soccer was a nightmare, though.)

    So yeah. Sorry for the long answer, and the fact that it keeps going on about my life. I just needed to vent.

    The end.

  10. I’m eleven. I left a couple cans of unopened soda in the freezer, hoping to get them cold before dinner. They exploded. My mom had already been pissy all day, and that was just the last straw.

    Though she didn’t hit me much, the things she spewed at me hurt way more than any blow she could’ve landed on me.

    “You’re so stupid. Why don’t you use your common sense? What kind of idiot leaves soda in the freezer?” Her eyes are red with rage and spittle flew out of her mouth as she continued to hurl insult after insult at me.

    “I didn’t know!” I cried, trying to defend myself.

    “What do you mean you didn’t know? What did you expect to happen after leaving soda in the f*cking fr—?”

    I interject and try to explain. “I’ve never done it before so I didn’t k—”

    Stop f*cking talking back to me and let me finish!” She screams and hit my head.

    “Take care of this fucking mess. I want it to be spotless, otherwise your ass is getting whooped.” She threateningly waves her weapon of choice, a spatula, at me and I was left a crying mess in the kitchen.

    I dutifully cleaned up my mess, sobbing. I wished to cease to exist. I started on cleaning the dishes, but my eyes land on a steak knife glistening in the sink.

    I wouldn’t do it. I know that for certain. But I held the knife to my wrist, watching the vein beneath pulse. The knife presses down; I’m momentarily distracted as I held my own life in my hands.

    My brother walks in, red from anger. Mom just yelled at him as well. I quickly drop the knife in the sink and he looks at me.

    “C’mon Anna. Let’s go for a walk and let Mom cool off.” He motions toward the front door.

    I sniffle and nod. Tears spring to my eyes as he gives me a quick side hug. My little sister walks with us, and we travel to the business parking lot across our apartment complex.

    As Mom cools off, we talk. He tells us she loves us, she just has issues. My brother tells us about his plans to leave home as soon as possible, perhaps for the military. “Anyplace but here,” he says firmly.

    We talk and the three of us cry. I confess to him the thought I had in the kitchen. He gives me a big hug and said, “Well thank God He stopped you from doing that.”

    ———

    That is one of my clearest memories of my tween years. I wanted to kill myself at 11 years old. Perhaps it was angst, or hatred towards my mom. Or both. But nonetheless, a child should not ever have those kind of thoughts at eleven years old.

  11. I never thought of taking my own life and neither anyone elses !

    I always think about adding a bit happiness and something good to other peoples life , whether they are my friends , family ! And specially those unpriveledged kids out begging for food and money ! (If you read this , help them as much as you can , give them food to eat and then see the smile on their faces , you will definitely find such things worthy 🙂 )

    Add smiles , thats it

  12. I'm gonna be honest here. This was actually the third time I considered taking my own life, but the other two are too personal for this site.

    Near the end of eighth grade, I had opted to enter some artwork of mine into an art show hosted by my district. Some friends of mine, in the same art class, also entered in some of their art.

    I won that art show. My piece got best in show, and I was so happy, I'd been the first of three to enter in a piece and win.

    Or, so I was at the time.

    One of said friends entered in a piece that was the same project as mine. So, for example, if we'd been told to draw elephants, we both entered in the elephant drawing, but only mine won.

    From that day forward, I noticed a change in them. They became more drawn, distant. That weekend we had another art related event, and the day after that my friend completely dropped me.

    I was so confused as to why on Earth my best friend would shut me out. I spent the remainder of the school year trying to get any information I could. The other art class friends I was talking about? They were apparently more loyal to them and were “sworn to secrecy” over what happened. I was nothing to them. The only explanation I got was from another friend, saying this person supposedly found me too annoying and decided to ignore me.

    I watched as my “friends” ruined everything for me. I watched as my friend got everyone I knew on their side. I was alone.

    And I thought it was all my fault.

    I felt so worthless, so beaten down by everything that had happened. I would take a crochet hook, of all things, and drag it as hard as I could across my arm. It wasn't sharp enough to cut me, but still left marks for a few hours. It would be gone the next morning, and when I would go to school, no one would see how much I was hurting. And my so-called friends wouldn't see how much they'd scarred me.

    I wanted to die. I didn't think I deserved anything. Like I said, I thought it was my fault.

    I'm a completely different person now. Before, I was outgoing, and loud. These people morphed me into what I am now: extremely shy, and quiet.

    It's better to be the person that doesn't talk to anyone, than someone that no one wants to talk to.

  13. All through high school I thought about it endlessly. The only reason I didn't do it was because I was afraid I would fuck it up.

    I was bullied endlessly. But for some reason I didn't try to kill myself – I don't know why, I certainly thought about it just about every single day.

    Now at 42 years old, I have to say that while life is really hard, and an absolute struggle usually for me, on account of being so sensitive, I have experienced things that make me now believe that there is something more than just human life.

    Something beyond what appears to be being born, struggling through life, and then dying.

    I've had a couple of "out of body experiences” that have shown me things that I do not understand, but I know feel right-more right than this broken world.

    And that is enough to keep me around for now as a human.

  14. When I was 10 years old I got sick.

    Ever so mentally sick.

    I got a disease. And that disease is still here, three years later. Perhaps it’s incurable.

    It goes by the name of depression.

    I don’t know what started it, maybe it was the constant verbal abuse.

    Maybe it was the multiple backstabs. Maybe it was the rare, but undeniable, physical abuse.

    Maybe it was the feeling of being alone.

    Of being excluded from that thing they call love and support.

    The feeling misunderstood and hoping someone would realise my deterioration.

    The words they said, that I would repeat and make myself cry over and over again.


    But whatever started it, lead to my ten year old self screaming for it all to stop, from yet another day of being shunned and called a piece of shit.

    I climbed our tree.

    Only 2 stories high, but hey, my mind at ten wasn’t very rational. There were jagged stones at the bottom.

    Earlier that night, I had tried to cut my flesh open and see my blood run.

    I took my knife and ran it again and again over my skin. But it was blunt.

    No blood was shed and I hated that I couldn’t even be in control of who hurts me.

    I trembled in fear as I hung onto the branches, my feet slipping off and my weak arms the only thing keep me on. And then.

    I let go.

    I screamed with all my might as I hit a branch.

    My human instincts forced me to grip it and pull myself onto a thick branch.

    I cried.

    I wanted to let go again.

    Just make it stop, let the pain go away.

    Why can’t the sadness leave me in peace?

    I wanted to let go, to fall, to die.

    But I was too scared.


    Here’s some advice; Stay alive, because someone will miss you.

    So here I am.

    Three years later.

    I’ve cut, and have scars left behind, almost as deep as the ones on my heart.

    I’ve tried to kill myself again.

    But hey.

    Some diseases are fatal.

    I’m just glad mine hasn’t been.

  15. When my mom has told me that no one loves you and she said why don’t you comfort yourself and go under a car or go to the deep part of the river and kill yourself.I was only 9 years old that i tought about suicide and death but I didn’t know how to do it and i wasnt brave enough but the first time that ive been saved and taken to the hospital after eating a really dangerous poison i was 13. After 9 times suicide attempting and 3 times almost dead in the hospital im still alive but i die everyday.thats how i live and im used to it now.

    The last time i tried to end my life was 2 weeks ago by drinking alchohol and taking 2 grams of heroin but i just got severe poisoned and nothing happened.

    Maybe it wasnt pure enough to kill.

  16. I never have. Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Not to mention it places your burdens on those who love you.

    If life seems unbearable, do something about it. Fix the problems, don't dump them on your family and friends multiplied by the fact that you were so miserable .

    It's a cowards way out.

  17. The person who said "high school years are the best years of your life" can fuck right off, I was bullied nearly all through my high school years, I was bullied for being South African even though I was white, they made fun of my Tourettes, they made fun of my stuttering, they pushed me all the time, they threw water at me, they kicked me out of groups, they made fun of my weight even though I was pretty thin, they would insult my mom because she's old, they would insult my niece for no reason, they insulted my bisexuality. It was complete hell for me and I was depressed, I wondered what the point of going back to school was. I was too much of a wuss to do it, it made me wonder if i could do anything right. I hated high school and I still do, the worst part is that the school did nothing, zip, nada.

    P.S. I'm not going to name the high school.

  18. When I was taking antidepressants. They made me so hopeless, helpless, and without any answers for my problems, I could not think rationally. I was drugged and making insane solutions for a temporary problem. Find a spiritual counselor that will help you find your love within.

  19. Take this and think on it. Imagine it vividly. Say it to yourself as many times as you can.

    For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

    Jeremiah 29:11

    For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

    2 Timothy 1:7

  20. The first time i thought of taking my own life was when i was 8 years old.
    It all happened when after dispersal in my school, i saw a ruler(scale)lying on the floor. I picked it up and realized that it belonged to a classmate of mine. I decided to keep it with me and give it to him the other day.

    I came back and my dad random checked my bag. He saw the ruler, asked me rudely from where it came, and before i could answer, he took the fire tongs, heated them on gas flame and put them on my palms for 5–6 seconds. I repeatedly cried i did nothing but he never listened.
    After that, i decided of committing suicide.
    (My parents never treated me well, they always criticized me and blamed me for their problems)

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