As I mentioned in my previous piece, I wanted to do something quite a bit personal this time. I don't expect anyone to read the whole thing, since I suspect it will be quite long. I hope, however, that this could help someone, whether they suffer themselves from mental illness, or know someone that does.

Let me preface that every person that suffers from any sort of mental illness lives things differently; that there are no circumstances that are better or worse than someone else who has or still suffers from it. My experiences or circumstances may differ wildly from what others may live, and I want to emphasize that.

Now, those of you that have followed me for a bit, or with whom I've interacted, might know me as a chipper kind of guy that overuses emoticons to try to correctly express himself. I like to think that that's the way I am in real life as well (minus the emoticons, of course).

This was not always so. In my early teen years, I suffered from deep, suicidal, depression. To try to tell my story with some structure, I will split it in four portions: How I got there, what it was like and what I did, how I recovered, and how it is today.

= How I got there =

Growing up, I always had been the shy kid. A pacifist at heart, I never really spoke up or asserted myself in any situations. Like anything, this attracted the attention of bullies, which made my elementary school years less than pleasant (painful in body and spirit). One of the things I had, however, was determination, so I kept on going and, to be frank, I can't say that this made me particularly sad. Even as a child, I realized that it was a natural thing for bullies to pick on smaller targets, and I knew it could have been anyone else. Despite knowing this, and without even realizing it myself, my feeling of self-worth plummeted.

When I tell this story, I try to help people picture how it feels through a situational exercise, which may be silly, but humor me: Imagine you've just had a new haircut. You're proud of it, you're happy with your new look, and you show it off to the people around you. One person tells you that they don't like it. Another, that it's just not that good. Another, that they wouldn't have done it that way. Another, that you look like a tool. Another, that says it's really ugly. And on, and on and on. How many would it take, how many different people would need to tell you hurtful things like that, before you no longer like your haircut? That you'll want to change it? That you're no longer proud? Perhaps you are a character that would not care, and you know what? I think you have the right idea. But that's not how I was.

Ugly, stupid, small, skin and bones, fag, poor, smelly, nerd, weak. When you hear these all the time, from so many, different people, something terrible happens: you start to believe them.

Now, I believe strongly today that most who did call me these, did so to avoid being the ones picked on rather than because they were inherently bullies themselves. But I did not have the maturity to know this at the time, and rather felt sometimes that the entire school was against me. Luckily, I had a tight knit group of friends, misfits just as I, and we simply tried our best to keep going.

There are other things that happened that didn't help my circumstances, but some things are better kept for one's self.

One of the things I was, though, was smart. And so, when time went to go to highschool (where I live, there are no middle school. Grade 7 to 11 are all in the same place, and we have no grade 12), I enrolled in a special program for gifted students that was within a regular highschool (didn't go anywhere special). While this would mean I would no longer be with my friend, I still tried it, and I easily passed the entrance exam. I went in, thinking that it was a way to start fresh, with people that didn't know me at all. Surely, they wouldn't say the same things, or hurt me like the others had before.

Oh, how wrong I was. It simply became worse.

The first few months within the program were... well interesting to say the least. While I came from a middle class household, the rest were mostly from money, and this class distinction did not make me any friends within my classes. And outside of my classes, I was seen as one of those pompous smart kids. Outsider on both ends. Even my teachers were openly hostile towards me, as I did not fit within the class of students they were used to (something my parents confirmed later in my life, after they had a rather interesting parent-teacher conference).

And during that time, my parents announced their separation. While it was a blow, like it would any child that is about to go through this roller-coaster, it was but a speck of the issues that I was living. The greatest consequence of this, is that I felt like they weren't there, since they had their own problems now to think about.

It's at the point that things started to seem bleak:

I felt like I was the ugliest, least likeable human being.

I felt crushed under the weight of expectations.

I felt like I was an absolute disgrace.

I felt like I didn't belong.

I felt like I was alone.

I felt hurt.

And soon, I felt like the world would be better off without me.

= What it was like... and what I did =

I think the true dark really settled in when I could no longer cry. I started feeling numb, a sad acceptance that all those statements I just said were true. I mean, who would hang out with a loser like me anyway? Who would want to even know me, there's nothing interesting about me.

The kind words that I would be getting, would roll off my back like rain on Teflon. "Lies", I would think. I would always want to be alone. I stayed in my room, sometimes doing nothing for hours. I felt like doing nothing. Why bother? All the things that I used to enjoy, didn't seem all that interesting anymore. Oh, I would do it from time to time, sure, but always with the nagging thoughts behind my head.

I vividly remember the times where I've lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, doing nothing. Another thing is I would hide, for hours, wondering if someone would even notice... Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn't.

My grades plummeted, which did nothing to endear me to my posh teachers. I felt even more reclusive. I would despise school, simply because I would have to be with others. I just wanted to be alone, to hurt alone.

I was aware that my melancholy was starting to show, so I acted okay. Every time someone would ask if I was ok, "sure! I just like to be alone.". No friends? Don't need those! I'm fine.

Completely. Totally. Fine.

Day in, day out, always the same routine. Always the same hurt. The lies I was told. The lies that I told. A cycle that seemed to have no end, to go only deeper and deeper.

Sometimes when I hid, and no one even noticed that I was gone, the idea started to pop into my head: would they even care if I was... Really gone?

Then the question became something even more terrible: "would they rather I be gone?". I was always a kind child, wishing others to be happy. So, would I be doing them a favor? Getting rid of the ugly, stupid, terrible son or brother might make them happy. I thought that, as soon as it would be done, their first thoughts would be "Phew, what a relief!".

Now, let me just mention something here: my family would have been absolutely devastated had I committed suicide. I feel sick to my stomach that I even thought that way at all, that I doubted their love which is absolutely there. The only excuse I can say is that I was not right in the head. I was sick. Depression is not something that people say to get a few weeks off from work, or to get sympathy or attention from others. It is a very serious medical condition.

3 times.

3 times I tried to take my life, to make the pain stop.

The first two times were fairly half-hearted, and I gave up pretty quickly.

But the third. I will never forget how I felt. The words I'm about to say trouble me to this day, shake me to my core, and keeps me awake sometimes still:

I felt good.

Like, really, really good.

My mind was so twisted at that point, that I thought that death was the solution to everything. I would no longer hurt, my family would be relieved, nobody would miss me, everything would be better off with my absence. Can you imagine getting to that point? Where you believe so little of yourself that you could even think that? This shames me terribly. When I finally had made the decision, I was feeling happy, and told my family how much I loved them. Little did they know, I was actually saying goodbye.

The method is irrelevant, but as I proceeded with it, I felt at peace. It was in the middle of the act, however, that a thought crept into my mind: I was home alone when I was doing it, but the first person who would have found me would have been my younger sister, since she would have come back home from school first.

As I said, I was a kind child, and I knew this would have traumatized her deeply to see a dead body, so I aborted (I always gave myself an out). I was annoyed, but I just thought that I would arrange it some other time.

A few days later, I met someone who changed my life... Simply because he asked the right question.

= How I recovered =

As I mentioned, my grades had plummeted, and most of my teachers simply assumed that I was not a right fit for the program. One person, however, decided to force a meeting with me: one of the school's social workers.

No biggy, I thought, everything's fine, like it always is, right?

So I sat down with him, and discussed my grades, how I was doing (fine, remember?), etc. He looked at me, and asked me, point blank:

"What do you think would happen if you were gone?"

And I think my response shocked him even more than I was when he asked:

"I think things would be better for everyone."

Without blinking, he just picked up the phone, called my emergency contact (my father), and a waterfall of therapy had just begun.

I cannot tell you how much, at first, I despised all the help I was getting. Now, how the heck am I supposed to end it if everyone's on my back? I thought it was stupid.

"It gets better.", "Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.", "think of the good things.", "You are this, and that, and awesome, and blah blah blah". I didn't believe a single word.

It was all true, though, and eventually, after much therapy with my school social workers, I started to see that.

As I said earlier, I'm a fairly determined person in general, so when I started to question why I was feeling the way I was, I decided to heal. I was determined to heal.

First thing I did was drop out of that program, to return to regular school. Believe me, it wasn't a hard decision, and it's probably the only time I can say that I had pleased those teachers (so happy for me, ah! sure.).

The second thing I did, might sound weird, but made complete sense: I started to volunteer for different charities and organizations. I helped gather funds for activities (such as our schools breakfast program, and well as international charities like UNICEF), and I volunteered also in local activities. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I did something that mattered, that in my own little way, I made the world better. Through these activities, I once more made friends, misfits again haha!

The third thing, of course, is the therapy. I actually was sent to a psychologist, but didn't get much out of him because he was terrible (this particular one was, please see a psychologist if you need to, and if they are not doing it for you, ask for another one. They are absolutely a qualified option to get the help you need, and I don't want to diminish that at all). I started to talk, be more open about how I felt. Sure, the world didn't change, I kept being bullied, but now, I believed them less, and trusted my friends and family's word more:

I was smart, kind, funny, compassionate, generous. Now, doesn't that sound better?

I took the time too. It wasn't easy, and bad thoughts crept up from time to time, but I was over the worst of it. I felt sad sometimes, I felt happy sometimes, but I felt.

Eh, and I started to cry again when I was sad, so that was a good indication.

In the middle of my recovery, in 8th grade, I had a teacher that taught me the passion of writing. She would never give me homework, and told me only to write stories, which she would then read. She encouraged my writing, and I was fortunate to have her as a teacher in 9th grade as well. My grades skyrocketed, and I felt good. But unlike the time when I had decided to end it, this time I felt truly, healthily good.

Most of my highschool had been hell anyway, but because of my friends, of those teachers that fostered these passions, of the activities that gave me worth, I can't say all of it was bad.

And at the end of the day, despite the darkness, I don't regret anything. It made me the person that I am today, and I am pretty proud of who I've become.

= How it is today =

Well, I'm pretty happy! There are things that could be better, sure, but I am content with what I have. My job, while not a dream, allows me to do things I like. I've learned how to draw, and I've traveled a bit, seeing beautiful things that I would otherwise have never seen. I have great friends and family, and we have a rapport that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world.

All and all, I am fortunate in life.

Depression is an illness that leaves a scar. It is always a reminder of how deep I can go, and that this shadow is always there, waiting for me to plunge back into it. There has been one event that occurred in the past 5 years, and which I will keep to myself as I don't want anyone I know or love to know this, that pushed me slightly in this shadow. I didn't think it would hurt me, but it did, quite fundamentally. And I felt those thoughts, creep up once more. I pushed them aside relatively quickly, but it shocked me that, despite all these years, and all I've been through, it can still come back if I'm not careful.

But I don't take it as something to be afraid of, it's only a challenge that I will surpass again and again, and I know that, if ever I falter, my friends and family will be there for me. And to them, I give all my thanks and love.

If you live through depression right now, or feel the dark over you, I can only say to you to get the help that you need, to not be afraid to speak out, to accept the kind words that are given to you, and to believe it when people say that it gets better. Because it truly, truly does.

You are important. You matter. The world would be made worse by your absence. People care.

To those that have read this entire wall of text, I want to say a heartfelt thank you. You may or may not have (or still) suffered from mental illness, but it is everyone's responsibility to acknowledge it, to talk about it, and to be aware. There can be no stigma about it. It saves lives. Me telling my story, is my way of making this small contribution to the conversation.

Even with this darkness surrounding me, even with the world that seemed against me, in this game where my life was on the line, I won.

I won.