I remember the first time I thought about committing suicide. I was in the ninth grade. One of my best friends wasn’t treating me right. She was spreading rumours about me all over the school and she was telling everyone that I stole her other friend’s boyfriend. I didn’t. My parents were super mad at me and never allowed me to do anything because they found out about my cutting addiction. I felt like I had no friends at all. I had just had my birthday party. I was turning 14. I invited all of my friends, even the one who are talking about me behind my back. I fell asleep that night, crying into my pillow because I felt like all my friends were just taking pity on me.

I’m glad I didn’t.


I remember the second time I thought about committing suicide. It was also in the ninth grade. Valentine’s Day. I had fallen in love with a guy in December. But I said some stupid things and did some stupid things as well. He left me. Come Valentine’s Day, he was dating my best friend. They had their first kiss that day and everything. I felt like a pile of crap inside. And he didn’t even care. I wished that I was as invisible as he treated me. Also that day some girl in the gym changing room accidentally saw my scars and ratted my cutting addiction out to everyone in my grade. I was devastated.

I’m still glad I didn’t.


I remember the third time I thought about committing suicide. December of the tenth grade. I fell into a deep abyss of depression. I met a ton of new people that year, but none of them were my friends. I didn’t treat any of them like friends. Because friends only hurt me. I met this one guy that I fell for, and I know that he fell for me too, but I never did anything about it because I was too scared to open up. Then he moved away. My parents were really demanding of me. I never lived up to their expectations. I never lived up to my own.

I’m still glad I didn’t.


I remember the fourth time I thought about committing suicide. I had finally met someone who I felt that I could open up to. And I did. But it turned out that all he wanted from me was sex. He never said it straight up, nor did he act that way. I could tell that that was all he was with me for. But because I hadn’t had a functional relationship before, I thought that maybe this was how it was supposed to be. One day, I was fed up with how he used me, so I tried to break up with him. He wouldn’t allow me to; he threatened to take his own life.

I’m still glad I didn’t.


I remember the fifth time I thought about committing suicide. He had finally broken up with me. But I was still devastated. Even though it was what I wanted, it came so suddenly. I don’t do well with change. After two weeks or so, he had completely moved on. He acted as though he didn’t care. He started talking to me like I was his biggest mistake. Finally he stopped acknowledging that I even existed. I was left to hurt. Broken and beaten down, I cried myself to sleep night after night, until finally I couldn’t feel anything at all.

I’m still glad I didn’t.


I remember the final time I thought about committing suicide. Ten months after our break-up, I was still hurt. I was wallowing in my own pity. My heart still ached and ached. Seeing him sparked a new kind of pain inside of me; one that I just couldn’t live with. I just wanted to run away, I just wanted this never-ending story of pain, hurt, guilt, and disgust in my life to end. He had left me feeling like damaged goods, like leftovers at the back of the fridge.


I remember the first time I had felt loved in years. I met someone who called me beautiful every day, and meant it every time; someone who loved me for who I was, and not what I was. I met someone who treated me the right way and not the way every other guy in my life treated me.

His name is Jesus.

I’m so glad I didn’t.