If you see me today, you can see that I am happier than ever. I am usually laughing with my friends or concentrating on another research paper. I have passions, an extraordinary family, an amazing boyfriend, and the best friends that you could ever have. I am the Student Director to my school's Honors and History Departments, and I have some other part-time jobs. What you see now, is someone who is well developed and balances life to the best that it can be. The best part is that I am capable of loving myself. If you met me five years ago, this was not the case.

I wasn't pretty or skinny, I had trouble with making friends at school, my biological father didn't seem to love me because he repeatedly told me that mental illness is fictional. It was as if I was making all of this up, and I wanted to hate myself. I stopped singing, I dropped out of my favorite clubs, doing my homework, and my academic performance drastically decreased. I suddenly began to not care, and life had simply become worthless. I began self-harming. My family had to remove all of the knives in the house, I was not allowed to be by myself. Tensions rose, and fighting seemed to never end. I left my best friend's birthday party without telling anyone and I ran into the woods and found a piece of broken glass. I was using anything to just hurt myself.

Was I scared of who I had become? Yes, I had.

It was February 29th, 2012 and I was sitting on my bed at home. I remember my dad was downstairs playing on the Xbox. I do not remember if my siblings were home or if my mom was even there. There were many causes that piled together to lead me to want to go search the medicine cabinet for something; for anything. I wanted to die, and I wanted to do it now. At least, that is what I told myself. I remember taking a package of cold medicine and swallowing over twenty pills which only made me dizzy.

After an hour or so, I went and told my parents what I had done. Shortly after, my mom took me to the hospital. We were there for hours. I could see how worried she was, but it did not matter to me. I know that we sat in the hospital for a long time, with a camera on me constantly. It felt as though someone ripped into my chest and pulled out my heart. I was emotionless.

I was admitted to a local hospital for patients eighteen years and younger. My first night was horrible for three reasons:

1. I was put into a room by myself and was locked in. No electronics or anything to do. I was trapped.

2. I was torn from my mom that night, and I cried myself to sleep.

3. I had to perform a strip search at only sixteen years old.

Death seemed like a much better route than any of this.

These were the worst two weeks of my entire life, even up to this point. I only had one phone call a day and that was for my parents. My siblings were not allowed to come and visit me; only my parents. I was in a confined living space where I was given several medications to test. My blood was taken at 5AM, every day. I saw several "specialists" who only reminded me of how much I should hate myself. I met kids that were five and six who were admitted because they had attempted to kill their family members. It was absolutely horrible, and I was stuck there until I could magically not want to hurt myself. Even in this safe place, I found ways to self-harm. I witnessed one of my closest friends in there kill herself. These are memories that I only wish to erase from my mind forever.

This experience changed me in a way that is irreplaceable. My scars are still here on the inside and out. I do not share my experience with any of this with most people because it seems unbelievable at first. I am not the same person that I was five years ago. For those who stuck it out and supported me, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You all know who you are and I will never forget what you have done for me.

I now look back at this moment and realize how far I have come. Because, hell yes, I have come so far.