Everyone has lights and shadows in their lives. There was a time when my life was filled with cheerful memories, a time when I enjoyed spending time with my family and never liked to be alone. Then, something happened – a painful event that would change my view of the world for the next three years. This event caused the light to leave my life; shadows consume me instead. I entered a dangerous downward spiral of depression and PTSD.

When my sister first moved into the neighborhood with her husband and two kids, I was excited about having my sister close by to me. I spent my summer volunteering and babysitting my niece and nephew. One morning, I woke up early and walked sleepily to my sister’s house, because she had a 7:30 a.m. appointment. The house was quiet. The kids were still sleeping in their room, and my sister’s brother-in-law was asleep on the couch. He lived in Nevada, but came down on the weekends to spend time with his brother.

For the longest time I wondered what I could have done differently. Would it have made a difference if I had taken the kids to my house? Or stayed awake instead of falling asleep? Or even if I was aware of the possibility that he was capable of such an act? He was considered family. Who would ever suspect that someone we all trusted could do something so horrible?
I couldn’t even register what he had done to me until I was back at my house, watching the kids coloring in the living room. It could have been them. I didn’t even want to consider the possibility of that though. It was too painful to think about.
For the rest of the summer I dreaded going over to my sister’s house in the mornings and complained and argued if my sister called me to her house for anything. She was the first to wonder if something was wrong, and as stupid as it may sound, I denied that anything had happened. We were such a close family; I was afraid that this would tear us apart, or that I would be blamed, even though I knew it wasn’t my fault. I tried to forget all about it, but the details replayed endlessly in my mind.
I was so grateful when school started up again, because for the next few months everything went back to normal. I was enjoying my sophomore year, and everything seemed to be going great. But that illusion was about to end.

The last time we all seemed like the perfect, happy family was Halloween weekend. We took a trip to Sedona together. Even though I may have appeared carefree and nonchalant on our family trip, I was in pain. It was tearing me apart that I had to be so close him and act like everything was okay. It felt as if he was still tormenting me even after all these months. He had power over me, and I couldn’t do anything about it. Eventually feelings of regret, shame, and worthlessness consumed me. They were the only characteristics I saw in myself. My view of the world was clouded with fear and anger. I had reached my breaking point. I couldn’t see any point in living.

One morning in November, I sat alone on the living room couch swallowing one pill after the other. Everything was a blur from then on – police officers, paramedics, and counselors were asking me questions and I didn’t know what to say to them. At the hospital I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. My sisters asked questions. My parents begged for answers. It was the first time I had seen my father cry. I was released later that night, and assigned a therapist. Finally I revealed what had happened. I felt relieved at first to have this weight lifted off my shoulders, but this was also the beginning of my family falling apart. My sister didn’t believe me, and we fought a lot as she continued to press for answers. I couldn’t cope with the pain, the questions, or the negative thoughts.

In the beginning, I saw my therapists as someone I could trust, someone who kept information confidential, but after I confessed to her about my suicidal thoughts, no time was wasted in calling in a crisis team and transporting me to a mental hospital. I didn’t stay there, but maybe I should have. I made plans to kill myself again at the end of sophomore year, but that plan was foiled when my parents found my stash of pills. I planned to try again during our camping trip, standing there at the edge of the canyon rim. I remember thinking that the sunset was the last sight I wanted to see before I died. I was mesmerized by the shades of blue, purple, red, and pink. I had never felt so calm and peaceful as I did in that moment. But I didn’t go through with it.

The following November, I decided to attempt suicide again. I wasn’t making any progress with therapy and medication, and I couldn’t see the point trying anymore. I stopped caring about my grades, about my responsibilities and about those around me. This time when I went to the hospital I was not getting out so easily. I had done more damage than last time to my body and was kept at Phoenix Children’s Hospital for three days to flush the drugs out of my system.

Afterwards, I was sent to Banner Behavioral Health Hospital to finally get the treatment I needed. Being in the hospital wasn’t as bad as people make it out to be. I did cry those first few days when I arrived, because I felt that I didn’t belong there, but during my stay there I finally felt regret about what I had done. Those five days helped me focus on myself instead of worrying about other responsibilities.

When people told me that I wasn’t alone, I couldn’t believe them. Could they possibly understand my struggle to see the positive in life? Or how I felt exhausted by simple tasks because it took so much energy to convince myself to get out of bed? Yet, I slowly realized that I was surrounded by people who actually did understand. They understood how frustrating it is to have people tell you “just snap out of it” and how the littlest things in day-to-day life can be a trigger or a negative reminder.

I made some good friends in the hospital, and I think about them often. The nurses were helpful and taught us about the different types of medication we were taking, coping skills to use, and most importantly helped us with our safety plan.
My viewpoint on the world began to change for the better. I still have bad days when negative thoughts resurface, but by talking to my therapist about what’s going on, I have made progress. At school I have teachers and counselors who I can turn to as well.
At home it’s not that easy. Recently, my cousin from California came to visit me. We stayed up all night catching up about school, friends, and boys. Then she revealed to me that she struggles with mental illness as well. We talked about how difficult it is to make our parents understand what we are going through and shared our experiences with therapists and medication. I realized that even in my own family, I’m not alone in this. She understood me.

For a long time, I let my depression and PTSD define me. I let it define me as a victim, someone who was weak and wouldn’t amount to anything. Now, I want to change that. I don’t want to continue living this way. I want to be able to find the positive moments in life and help others who are struggling with their own mental illness. I am determined to change my perspective on the world and negative situations. For the first time, I am actually letting people in instead of building a wall to keep them out. I get nervous about the thought of doing group therapy with other teens, but I try to see it as a helpful tool that will enable me to see the positives in life.

I am grateful to everyone who has helped me and who will continue to help me through this journey and battle of mine. Without the support from those around me, I would still see the world as a negative place. My perspective, and how I choose to view people, places, and situations will help me turn my life around. It’s a valuable tool to have when fighting any mental illness.