A year and a half ago, in November of two-thousand-fifteen, I was an absolute mental mess.

I have anxiety and depression, and living where I was living was not helping me at all. My dad and I were jumped while we were sitting in his truck hanging out, and he had to get four stitches in his head from where one of the assailants hit him with his BB gun.

Exactly a week after that, we got pulled over for a simple traffic violation; the taillights went out. Our driver bolted from the police, and left my dad and I to deal with it all. They cuffed my dad, who had had a bud of weed in his cigarette pack, and stuck me in the back of a police car.

It was cold, and I was already freaking out. I ended up scratching at my wrist, making the skin raw and broken, the pain helped to keep me calm. They eventually let us go (three hours later), and we ended up walking back home.

Later that night, or rather, early the next morning at about 5 am, I was hit with a sudden wave of intense depression. I wanted to end it all, make it all stop, and I started to make plans. Very, very detailed plans. I scared myself, and ended up messaging my mom, because I knew I could count on her.

My dad slept through her blowing his phone up, and our roommate ended up sitting with me until my dad did wake up. He removed every blade I owned, told me “This is ridiculous”, and went back to bed. My mom took me to the ER, and they admitted me into Mental Health the next evening.

I spent ten days there, but I’m not sure it honestly did anything to help. I still get the urge to harm myself sometimes, although I’m usually able to fight through it. My point is this: if you are feeling suicidal, please, please tell someone you trust to help you, don’t suffer it alone. Especially if you feel like you have no reason to feel this way and still do. Every single person has worth, every. Single. Person.