He was 21 when he decided that living wasn't something he wanted to do. That nothing could be helped and staying alive wasn't worth the struggle. He was 21.

I remember going to his funeral, the open casket up against the wall and tears of pain and regret reflected in everyone's eyes. I remember his mom hugging me tight and his brother staring at the ground. His dad just stood there. He was 21.

He was leaving behind a little girl, left wondering where her daddy was. He was 21.

I remember my parents driving us home, the car too quiet, the quiet waiting to be broken but no one had the nerve to shatter the silence. I remember getting the "suicide is bad, don't do it" talk and how I agreed that it wasn't right. I was 16 when my friend hung himself in his backyard.

I was 17 when I first started cutting. Hopelessly hoping that by tearing open my arms the emotions would flow out and instead finding that the emptiness was almost  worse than before. That the little sigh of relief was replaced by a gasp of pain.

I was 17 when I was thrust into a hole so dark and so deep that I gave up on trying to escape. I was 17 when I first attempted suicide.

By wanting to open up my wrists and have my spirit flow free. My parents finally caught on to my lies, I couldn't convince them that the tears on my arms were cat scratches and I was 17 when I started therapy. Every two weeks on the dot. Missing school so many times a week that my friends knew that something was different with me.

I explained to them that I was fine and only the few close ones knew the vast assortments of disorders I was diagnosed with. I was 17.

Time went on and my anxiety went wrong and it pulled me in like a siren’s song. The kind of song that lures you into the unknown and you don't realize you're dying until it's actually happening.

I was 18 the second time. I hoped that I would fall asleep and never wake up but all I got was a really bad stomach ache and a migraine that left me wondering if I would ever try again.

Six months later I was still fighting to get better but the darkness consumed me again and I was 18 when my third attempt happened.

I remember waking up after passing out from trying to suffocate myself and I remember the exact moment when I realized that by ending it all wasn’t going to end it all. There would still be problems and I didn’t want anyone else to have to live with them, so I stood up, brushed myself off and started to think differently.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m still not all that happy, but I’m better than I used to be. I realized I am stronger than I thought for fighting against the rot and I am wiser than I was, that I am still living because God has His plan for me. That I have to trust that what He has seen is still a part of me and that everything I do from this point forward will be His plan. That I will stand where He wants me to stand, to shout His name and glorify Him with praise.

I was 18 when I realized I was strong. And that I was wrong to try and throw this away.

I was 18 when I realized I could do so many amazing things.

And I was 18 when I realized I am beautiful for who I was on the inside. I am not determined by the scars on the outside.

The scars that tell the story of my past, provide a reminder for the present and prove my strength for the future.