I believe that the darkest times bring light, recovery and strength.

My memories of the hospital are few and pale, but I do remember the six IVs taped into my hands and arms, and the pain I felt inside my veins after the IV lines had been in for a week. I remember the omnipresent security guards, following me as I took a walk around my floor, rolling my IV stand next to me, watching me even when I went to the bathroom. I remember the overwhelming sense of apathy about my life, about what I had done, about what would happen next.

My parents found me completely lucid, lying in bed, waiting to die. When I got to the hospital, the doctors told them I was going to die, that I had taken more than three times the lethal dose of Tylenol, and that the other pills mixed in there weren’t going to help. Then they said that I might live, but I would need a liver transplant. When the toxicity levels of my liver went down, the doctors said that the sheer amount of pills I took saved me, because my body rejected them instead of absorbing them into my system.

I believe that the darkest times bring light, recovery, and strength.

I felt no remorse for my actions. Not for myself, at least. As I watched my father, my unfailingly strong pillar of support, fall apart before my eyes, I felt a twinge of regret for the sorrow I was bringing upon him. I received texts, calls, letters, and packages from classmates that I never realized cared, and I was slightly apologetic for the confusion that they were undergoing. My older brothers, masculine and emotionless, were full of discomfort and anxiety, and that brought up some feeling sort of like remorse.

When I finally felt sorry, it was for the wrong reasons, though this time it was for myself. I felt sorry that I had to go to a psychiatric hospital where I was locked in a wing and other kids threatened my life, and sorry I was moved to a residential treatment center where I was pushed and pulled to reveal everything and force-fed concepts that I didn’t believe.

I believe that the darkest times bring light, recovery, and strength.

Despite my anger and resentment towards my situation, as I underwent the consequences of my attempt, I began to grow and develop. Being terrified for my life made me realize that I did want to live. Examining my expectations made me learn that my perfect ideals were impossible. Being away from my old environment taught me that maybe it wasn’t healthy for me. I learned about myself, and came to understand the traits that shaped my depression and anxiety. I wanted to become something different than I had been, and so self-acceptance and happiness became my priorities.

I set daily goals for myself, working on one small “thinking error” at a time. I opened up to my parents, telling them all the secrets they had never known. I accepted responsibility for what I had done. I recognized that failure is healthy once in awhile, and I didn’t have to beat myself up about it.

Now, I am a self-accepting and happy person. I exercise regularly, spend time with friends, talk to my parents and brothers daily, and work hard on schoolwork. The struggles of my darkness brought my recovery and strength to live, brought my light.