It’s October, mid afternoon. It’s sunny out. The kind of day that mocks you because it seems like the rest of the world is perfectly happy and you’re just the one rain cloud in an otherwise clear and sunny sky.

I keep the window shade shut. I still haven’t gotten out of bed. I don’t want to deal with the world today; I want to sleep. Forever.

It was another night of lying awake, thinking of all the possible ways to simply stop existing. I probably think about this too much.

Most suicidal people just pick a method and that’s that. But of course I have to over-complicate the simplest thing in the world. I mean shooting my self in the head isn’t that complicated.

I’ve been close to doing so three times already.

It would be easy; just point and shoot. Like taking a picture, except I wouldn’t see the result, but someone would. And then there’s the poor person who would get stuck cleaning up my mess.

I hate having people worry and fuss over me. If it was possible to clean up my own blood splatter and brains—that would be ideal.

Sadly, that’s not physically possible. Maybe I’ll just drive off of a cliff or speed into a median on a deserted highway. That sounds better. People could come up with their own explanation for what happened if they aren’t comfortable with suicide.

That seems like the most polite option. Then again …

This has been my thought process off and on for the last four years.  

Up until now, only a handful of people knew about my struggles with depression and suicidal thoughts.

My family still isn’t aware and I never sought professional help like I should have. This was mostly because I didn’t know what to tell them. I wasn’t sure exactly why I was so depressed in the first place.

To this day I have trouble explaining what was the driving force behind these thoughts. I simply just did not want to live anymore.

I saw no point or positive impact my existence was having on the world, so why continue imposing? I guess you could say I felt useless, like a waste of space.

A friend, with whom I felt comfortable talking to about it, encouraged me to talk to a professional. I never did. I saw this as a weakness I had to deal with on my own.

Other people have problems; they didn’t need to listen to mine as well.

The negative stigma attached to depression and suicide also made the notion of seeking help uncomfortable.

So I continued wrestling with these thoughts and trying my best to keep my monsters at bay.

It sucked.

Every day I would wake up wishing that I hadn’t and have to try to convince the world that everything was OK: I just wasn’t getting enough sleep at night.

It always worked though; no one ever noticed anything was wrong.

Now you may be thinking, “Shouldn’t someone have noticed or seen the signs?”

The thing is, the “signs” aren’t always that noticeable.

I tried my hardest to pretend that I wasn’t depressed or constantly thinking of ways to end myself, and no one suspected otherwise.

This process continued for years. Then one day after a long night of crying about how lost I felt, I made the conscious decision that if I wasn’t going to get help then I had better start trying to help myself because I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold on.

So that’s what I did, as best as I could. I spent my days and nights listening to Stick to Your Guns, A Day to Remember and The Wonder Years, because those bands gave me more hope that things would get better than anything else.

I went to local shows because they made me forget, even if for only a few hours, how much I dreaded life.

I wore my ‘To Write Love On Her Arms’ tank top more than any other shirt I own as a constant reminder that there is hope even though I didn’t feel it (TWLOHA is a nonprofit organization dedicated to raising awareness about depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide).

I continued to talk to my friends about my struggles, despite how difficult it was for me to do at times.

Slowly, I got better. My sky went from black to gray and then, over time, blue again.

The invisible ropes that were slowly suffocating me were gone. I felt happy again without reason for the first time in years.

I haven’t felt depressed in months.

Now here I am. It’s February, 3:30 a.m. and I’m telling you about the darkest time in my life.

I would like to be clear about why I decided to write this column. I don’t want attention or sympathy or anything like that.

As I said before, I hate when people worry about me. My goal with writing this is to let those of you out there who are dealing with depression or considering suicide to know that you are not alone and there is always hope.

The more people I told my story to, the more I realized that I wasn’t the only one feeling this way. A few of those people had also go through similar situations are one point or another in their lives.

Issues like depression or suicide can, without a doubt, be uncomfortable and difficult to talk about, but not talking about it does not make that pain go away.

If you, or someone you know, is dealing with depression or suicidal thoughts, please encourage them to seek professional help.

You can call Hopeline at 1-800-SUICIDE (784-2433), or visit their website hopeline.com. There is also a counseling service on campus located in Hearnes Hall, or call 417- 625-9324.

You are not alone, there is always hope.