The first time I can remember contemplating the idea of ending my life, I was eleven years old. I didn’t have a detailed exit plan. It was simply a strong feeling that the world would be a much better place if I wasn’t in it. The idea was shocking, terrifying and sad. “Why did I think that?” As the year progressed, more foreign little dark thoughts would slowly creep in, unexpectedly overwhelming my young brain and then fading away again. We don’t talk about things like that. Even if I’d wanted to tell someone, what words would I use? How could I possibly admit these kind of “bad” thoughts and feelings? What would happen to me if I told? My depression wasn’t something conscious or obvious. It was just something I felt deep down in the murky part of my soul. I was raised in a strongly religious, faith filled home. I believed in God and the power of prayer. So, I prayed morning and night, I attended…
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