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It's a weird feeling to be scared of your own two hands – only when this fear was evoked deeply within me did I become aware of the power in which they held. These were the hands that made my bed, drove me to school and back along with various other mundane tasks – yet, in reality, they were so much more. They had the power to choose whether or not I would wake up the next day – and sometimes, being in a deeply depressed state, I couldn't honestly say I always wanted to. Death, it seemed, was simpler than living. All of the anxiety and negative feelings that relentlessly filled my mind could be gone – just like that, with just a few simple actions. I think it's important for me to make a distinction here, however. It wasn't that I wanted to die, necessarily, it was just that I didn't want to continue living in the state I was in.

On of my more notable nights, I ended up on a depression forum. I ventured into a thread in which people spoke explicitly about their desire to die – however, whether it was for religious reasons or what not, they had chosen not to take their own life. Rather, they were waiting for the end of the world to happen in 2012 – not only were they waiting, but they were passionately anticipating it. I should have clicked off the page immediately, but my depression kept me fixated upon the thread. When I told my counselor the next day, she said “this is the kind of depression people get hospitalized for.”

I was scared numb after she said that. How had I gotten to this point? How had I morphed into a simpering young person full of zest for life to that of a besotted teenager? There was so much in which I didn't have the answers to, and so much in which my depression was preventing me from seeing.