For most of my life, I thought people who went to therapy were super weird. I couldn't understand how talking to a complete stranger about your problems for an hour while they doodled behind a clipboard could ever solve anything. I especially didn't understand how someone could trust another person with such personal information. I couldn't understand how someone could become so desperate that therapy was the only option left.

I just couldn't understand the concept of therapy. And then one day, I became one of those people I had previously judged in the past. I became a girl with a thought bigger than herself. Suicide.

Life got tough for me at a young age. Nine to be exact. One moment my mama and I were carelessly baking cookies at 2 in the morning living our best lives, and the next she was putting a gun to her head taking her own life. No goodbye. No warning. No anything. Just a blood-stained pillow.

My worries quickly went from passing a two-minute multiplication test to who's going to raise me. Am I going to be a foster kid? Who's going to help me raise my children? Who's going to help me get ready on my wedding day? Who's going to teach me how to drive? Who's going to comfort me during my first heartbreak? Who am I going to watch One Tree Hill with? Most importantly, did I cause this?

I was adopted by my grandparents and life was going well. Or so I thought. Days turned to months and months turned to years, and before I knew it I was heading into sophomore year. At the beginning of January after a basketball game, I got told my grandfather was diagnosed with stage four lung, liver, stomach, and esophageal cancer. He had less than a year. My father was dying and there wasn't anything I could do to stop it. Let's just say I didn't cope with the news in the best way.

I had it all planned out. If my mama could give up so easily I could too. If she could commit suicide then so could I. It was the only way I knew to heal the gaping wound in my heart being continuously stabbed at. As soon as my grandfather died I was going to do the same. I just couldn't take the heartache anymore. I couldn't bear to hear the news of another tragedy. I didn't want to die, but I also didn't necessarily want to live. My life had become a tragic paradox.

Every once in a while I would hint a joke at the idea of suicide. Luckily, a good friend took my joke seriously and told a teacher we were both close with. At the time, I hated her for telling someone what I said. I hated the teacher for doing her job and reporting it. I hated that my secret was out. I hated I had no control over what would happen next. I knew therapy was the best choice, but I never wanted to be that girl.

The next day I was in therapy.

It wasn't at all what television had made therapy out to be. There was no clipboard. There were no doodles drawn. There was no couch. There was just me and an amazing therapist that I owe the world to. I never dreaded therapy. I actually looked forward to it.

On December 11 my grandfather took his last breath. I didn't. Almost three years later and I'm still breathing. I no longer feel the need to end my life. I am a student at Clemson University. I am a writer for the Odyssey. I've loved and lost and yet here I am. Thriving. I look into a fire and smile now. Life no longer scares me because I know that I can overcome anything it throws at me and come out on the other side stronger and smarter than ever.

A suicidal thought meant to end my life turned into the most rewarding life-changing two-year journey that ultimately saved my life.

IF YOU OR SOMEONE YOU KNOW ARE STRUGGLING WITH SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AND/OR TENDENCIES, REACH OUT IMMEDIATELY. NO ONE SHOULD GO THROUGH THIS ALONE. SUICIDE IS SERIOUS.

National Suicide Hotline: 1 (800) 273-8255 - available 24/7