I always wondered what would happen if I did it. Killing myself, that is. Now before you get all morose on me, I’m not a depressed girl; I love my life. See the thing with suicide is that it’s almost a paradox. It’s a cry for help, showing weakness and uncontrollable emotions. It’s the bravest thing a person can do; ending your life takes guts. It’s the coward’s way out and instead of fighting for the right to live happily they just give up. It’s a cry for help that wasn’t heard. They aren’t really cowards, the people who kill themselves. They’re just scarred and lonely; they don’t know how to deal with their emotions. So when I say it’s the coward’s way out, I mean it in a different way. Maybe they sought help that wasn’t available and maybe they shoved emotions deeper into their souls only to let them fester and grow. When I think about it, it’s almost a cry for attention. From me, I mean. I’m not saying a depressed person killed themselves for attention; I’m not that shallow, inconsiderate, and stupid. I mean from me. ME. When I personally think about taking my own life. I don’t feel the need to have everyone’s eyes on me, but when you think about it my death would result in everyone rethinking some kind of action. I’d like to think that it would affect some people; I consider myself to talk to a decent amount of them. I feel almost conceited, but I would expect my parents and close friends to be devastated. Would life be harder without me? How long would it take them to recover from my death? How would it affect their day-to-day routine? Would my school acknowledge it? I’m only 15. While anyone taking his or her own life is a travesty, its worse when it’s a young person. One of the reasons why these deep thoughts take up my headspace is because of my past. Not trying to be melodramatic here but I suffered from extreme paranoia from ages 8 to 12 about. I literally thought everything was going to kill me. Thoughts of death and its affects consumed my soul; I wasn’t exactly depressed but I wasn’t happy either. I make it sound worse than it is but waking up every day only to cry over something as stupid as being in the same room as a bottle of bleach because I was afraid I would drink it. See, some of the time I was scared I would die from causes outside of my control, like Natasha Richardson’s death, for example. She died after hitting her head from internal brain bleeding. Every time I so much as bumped my head for two years I was convinced I had a day to live. But most of the time, I was scared of my suicidal thoughts. Like I said before, I’m not depressed and I love my life, so why did I have these thoughts? I was scared that my life would end short, so terrified that I over analyzed it. When I walked down the mall paths I imagined myself jumping from the third floor right then landing and dying. Then I would proceed to panic that I would perish. So scared yet still contemplating. That’s what’s so confusing. I thought of endless ways I could kill myself or the world could kill me, of what would happen if I knew I only had 30 days to live. I was so terrified. Why did I think these things? It brought me to the point of chest pains from anxiety, thus leading to more anxiety over my fathomed upcoming heart attacks and two EKGs. Life was scary. I was scared of the greatness ending- I dwelled too much on the fright for so long that I forgot about the greatness I was scared to lose. Today when I walk down the streets I still think about jumping in the nearby river or in front of a car. But I’m not suicidal. Make sense?