Hello, dear readers.

I am writing this article to talk to you about something that I was told should stay private for my whole life. My suicide attempt. And life after it.

My thoughts about suicide returned last week. On Sunday, to be exact. As I was walking home from my private lesson, I thought that maybe I could kill myself. I had had a bad day. Actually, a few bad days. I know. Stupid. Pathetic. People have problems that are worse than mine. But that won't stop me from telling you my story.

Flashback to five years earlier. I was thirteen. I was in the seventh grade - the hardest year, besides eleventh and twelfth grade. It was the year on which depended your future - in which high school you would go to, then which university, etc.

My thirteen-year-old self was just as shy and quiet as I am nowadays. But my younger self didn't know how to express herself. It wasn't like she didn't know how to. She just didn't know she would want to do this for the rest of her life (hopefully). She just went to school, thought about her favourite actors, went back home and wished she didn't have school on the next morning.

She was also stuck in a toxic friendship which she didn't know how to end.

It was a spur of the moment decision back then. It was my late grandma's birthday. But it was also my frenemy's. She had invited me to the mall with the group of friends I was in. I didn't want to go, but I had to because of my mother, who was forcing me to suck it up and just stay friends with those particular people so that I wouldn't be alone. Plus one of these girls had been my best friend since second grade.

Earlier that day happened the thing that triggered me to attempt suicide. It will sound like the funniest thing on earth - I had failed a test. And guess what it was written on my sheet besides my result from that test?

It was written: "Bravo!"

As if it was meant to say: "Bravo, you failure!"

After school, until I had to go to the birthday celebration, I spent my whole afternoon writing the letter that would be found on the next morning, alongside my dead body.

After I left the birthday celebration, I was blinking back tears, because I knew this would be the last time they would ever see me. I thought that by the time the next day rolled, I would be gone. I was trying to imagine their reactions when they heard about my death. I wanted them to know that they had been one of the reasons why, including both my parents.

How did my father become a reason why? He would hurt me. He would hit me on the head with his fist or would slap me hard whenever I had a hard time with my homework. I remember vividly how on the eighteenth of March 2013, when it was the day I attempted suicide, I was doing my Maths homework. My father was in the room. As usual, because I was struggling, he would punish me. I remember holding back tears, thinking that it would be the last time he would do such a thing since on the next morning they would find me dead in my own bed.

The words that were supposed to be my last ones were to my mother. I had told her: "I love you, Mom."

Late at night, I stole the pills and drank them all. Let's say that it didn't end well. That night had been the most dramatic night in my family. I don't want to talk about the details.

And after my attempt, life went on. I started going to a psychologist. My so-called "friends" never learned that I had attempted and my teachers treated me the way I had been treated before.

This Sunday will be officially five years since my attempt. I know I will never forget this day. My mother says my grandma would not be proud of me since I had attempted to kill myself on her birthday.

Now that you know my story, I should end my article here. But I haven't said everything.

Most people who have attempted suicide would tell you that there is so much to live for. Not that they're wrong. I am sure they mean the words they've said. However, I've been on Earth for only eighteen years. How am I supposed to know if it really is worth it to live?

After reading my story, you might think that it's nothing compared to other people's stories, that my struggles are nothing. I will understand you. I think the same. But let me tell you: even if my story is not as interesting as others, it's still mine. It deserves to be told, just like yours.

So... I guess this is it. I don't think I have anything else to say. It is your turn, however.

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