Game On {1}

Consider This

Consider reading this. Then consider all the words I have written at eleven at night and take action.

I've read countless stories, paragraphs, and sentences concerning mental health. It may seem like a very rare topic, but I can assure everyone it is not. I've read many stories with authors who couldn't continue because of certain mental health issues. More than half of the books on Wattpad include a main character with a dark past and serious mental health issues.

Somehow, people manage to turn into something romantic. Yes, I have also done this. It's romantic in a fictional world, but definitely not in reality. I try to take the topic of panic attacks seriously in this fanfiction. Then I see stories who take mental health issues for granted.

Depression is not beautiful. Usually, no one saves you right before you try to commit suicide and you instantly love that person. Mental health issues are serious.

You've probably read many authors' stories about their struggle with depression or another illness. They use certain offensive words so casually, such as emo or suicidal.

If they were actually in a certain position, they would understand that those words can be offensive.

No person who deals with self harm wants to be called emo and no person would just casually tell people they're suicidal without a reasonable explanation. I understand that people don't like to share personal stories. I don't understand how people can just mention a part of their story with no reasoning.

Before I continue, I would like to point out that there are certain bullying stories that always include self harm and depression. No, a person does not just immediately decides to harm his or herself after one bad day and wouldn't be able to hide the type of injuries that they mention. Also, people aren't as ignorant and horrible as they seem. People like to make that a huge topic. There are many people who are very kind, more than the ones who are assholes. If someone saw you getting beat up or injured, they'd help. I swear.

It's cliché in my situation though. Im young, only fifteen. In seventh grade, I slowly fell into a repetitive cycle. I fell into a cycle of school and sleep. The friends I had surrounded myself with, we slowly lost contact.

This does not mean they completely stopped talking to me for some reason and started bullying me like everyone else. That doesn't happen in real life. An entire class doesn't just start bullying you in a short time period.

From there, I still had a few close friends. I still didn't feel well. Everyday was boring. I was always self conscious, but even more so than usual then. It went on for a year. It was eight grade when I began leaving little scratches against my skin. Nothing horribly gruesome. Scratches, nothing else.

The summer after eighth grade wasn't the best. Because of how I felt, my relationship with my family slowly crumbled. I got into many arguments with everyone and one day, my mom told me to kill myself.

She didn't mean it. I know that now, but she said the same thing a year before. I told her that I wanted to kill myself and she handed me a knife. I didn't do it obviously, but I locked myself in my room for quite some time. She wasn't herself when she was angry. I understand that, but I didn't understand back then.

The night she told me to kill myself the second time, I decided to do it. I had actually contemplated it. Weeks before, I stole some really old pills at my dad's work since he's a caretaker for an elderly patient.

It took some time that night. I cried continually. I considered suicide. I thought of my relationships with my friends and family. My father was more interested in listening to everything my grandparents told him. My mother never understood and had slight anger issues. I got into too many arguments with my sisters. So many times that they avoided me. I thought of my friends. I told them about how I felt. Told me that I shouldn't feel that way cause apparently I had a great life.

Eventually, I took the pills at 3 am on August 8, 2014. I didn't write a heartfelt letter. I stared at the pills for hours while crying and feeling sorry for myself. The pills were too dry for me to swallow at first so I drank Coke after every pill I took. Mind you, these pills were probably years old so they tasted horrible and I can barely drink Coke without thinking back to that moment.

Then I wimped out. Yes, I wanted to die. But I was still young, I was scared. I woke my parents up and the words I uttered were incomprehensible except the word pills. They understood because I saw my father go on the phone and my mother trying to hold me up. It was only three or four minutes after taking the pills, but I felt dizzy and last thing I remembered hearing was, "Are you that stupid?"

I woke up in a hospital. Stuck there for hours with my parents just staring at me. After they had found out I scratched myself, I was sent to a mental hospital for a week. It wasn't bad. Sometimes I wish I could go back. I won't go into detail about what it was like in there though.

I came back home. My father went to work a lot more than usual. My mother didn't trust me anymore. My sisters still ignored me.

Life was basically the same before I attempted suicide. Then we moved. I spent the first three months at my new school in the library for lunch and slowly was accepted into a great group of friends. My life is back on track, but I still have moments where I regret not killing myself when I had the chance. There are still a few things that make me feel that way. Not feeling loved at times, the fact that my grandma has cancer, or the fact that the relationship with my family never fully healed.

Mild depression I would say, but putting labels on things don't really help, do they?

So consider my story. Consider mental health issues and how you view them. Consider respecting people's illnesses and don't take thing like these so lightly. And tell me your story, please. Tell me what you've gone through, mental illness or not. Share your problems. I promise that someone cares.

Thank you to those who actually took the time to read my story.