Aspyn is Starting Over

I was eight the first time I thought about suicide. It seems unreal now. When I see kids that young now, all giggly and carefree, I can’t help but wonder—what was so messed up about me?? What was so bad in my life at eight that made me want to die?

Back then, life shouldn’t have been anything but cartoons and ice cream. Yet, somehow, my own brain turned against me. For every single reason I could muster to keep pushing through, my mind would cruelly stack up double to quit. I’ve never been great at explaining it. Not that I’ve really had to—no one seemed to notice the storm inside me. Or maybe they did see, but chose to look away.

The memory is etched into my brain. Eight years old, curled up in the bathtub, letting the scorching water from the shower drown out my sobs. I was crying so hard I could barely breathe.

“Why are you even here, Aspyn? Just end it. Everyone would be better off. Your friends? They don’t actually like you—they pity you. You’re nothing but a burden. Even your parents would be relieved not to deal with you. No one will ever love you. Just do it. End it.”

Climbing out of that shower was like walking through a fog. My face was so hot and red. How could I ever explain that to my family if they noticed? Turns out, they rarely did. But that day, shockingly, they did ask if I had been crying. Without a second thought, I lied, “No, just scrubbed my face too hard.”

The lie rolled off my tongue so easily, and my parents believed it. From that moment on, “scrubbed my face too hard” became my go-to excuse for why my face was red after showering. It was the first lie of many that filled the next nine years of my life. Each one came easier than the last. Lie after lie to avoid discussing what was going on in my head. The endless white noise was pushing me to the edge.

At eight, I didn’t understand that I had depression or anxiety. I just knew that the voice in my head wasn’t mine. It was like an intruder, echoing every fear, every dark thought I wished I could ignore. And I fought it, for nine long years.

Nine years of tearing at my own skin, of drowning in self-loath, of pulling away from almost everyone. Until finally, one night, I found the courage to press just a bit harder, to cut a bit deeper. As I watched the blood flow onto the pristine white tiles, a twisted sense of relief washed over me. I smiled weakly, thinking I could finally stop fighting. I thought I had won, right before everything went black.