I was fourteen when I attempted suicide the first time. My parents, to this day, don’t believe it. They don’t acknowledge it. And for a long time that stayed with me. They worked too much. No one was there for me. To build into me the idea that I didn’t have to be perfect, that I could acknowledge my broken pieces, that would have meant everything. But no one was there. So I stayed silent. I suffered alone. I disappeared. I was a shallow version of myself for a very long time. It’s taken over a decade to recover. Over a decade to begin to feel whole again. Over a decade to acknowledge that people don’t get to tell me how to feel. They don’t get to determine my story.

There have been a few attempts since then, but most of the time I just think of it. I’ve come up with some very clever ways of how I would do it. It makes me feel like I’m in control. It allows me to hurt a little less to imagine that I can be in control of my own destiny. It feels good to think about when all I feel is numb and question, “Why on earth would I want to continue living this life.”

So, while I am in this place of oblivion, this place where I feel as small as a mouse, I am large. I am often drowning, but I decide if I swim again. I decide to pull myself up and out of the water. I determine my story.

And, you determine yours. Stay strong.

💜 Eliza


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