The whole messy story.
My earliest memory is of standing next to the kitchen table after attending the funeral of a twelve-year-old girl who I remember idolizing. I remember my parents explaining to me how people normally live until they get old, then go away and don't come back. I remember, two days later, my mom looking at me and making an offhand comment that seeing me grow up so fast made her feel old.
In typical five-year-old logic, I decided that by getting older I was killing my parents.
I had an older brother who hated me because he knew that my mom's post-partum depression was my fault. He told me I was useless. I believed him completely. I've hated myself violently and sometime illogically my whole life. I first directly attempted suicide when I was eleven; before that I would stick to things like walking across busy streets with my eyes closed. I self-mutilated regularly starting at the age of twelve. Because I lie convincingly and only attempted suicide through strangulation and/or overdose, my family still doesn't know any of this. At fourteen, I found a friend who gave me the wakeup I needed, and I started working to fix my life. Unfortunately, at sixteen, just as I was getting to the point where I didn't dread waking up in the morning, another one of my close friends killed himself. Three more friends died in rapid succession. I was sent straight back to where I started. Fortunately, the process of healing was a lot faster the second time around, and now, at eighteen, only about a third of my thoughts involve death, self-hatred, or cutting. Still, I'm hoping it will get better. I guess I can only wait and see.