When I was 10 years old, my mother, who had never touched a cigarette, died of lung cancer. That was in 2008—the same year the financial crisis hit, costing my dad his job. For my brother, the grief kicked in immediately; I remember him crying every night for quite a while, right after my mom died. But for me, the sadness came slower—it wasn’t until high school, surrounded by other girls with moms to guide them through getting their periods and picking out prom dresses, that I became grief-stricken, almost unbearably so. It was then, at 15 years old, that I first thought about taking my own life.

The term for having those intrusive thoughts in the psychological community is suicidal ideation. They were triggered by the grief about my mother and my paralyzing depression, and some anxiety, mainly due to my new high school environment. It felt as though every negative thing that happened in my life—failing a test in school, having a fight with my dad—felt so overwhelmingly bad that suicide seemed like the only option. I constantly believed my family members, friends, and coworkers were bothered by my presence and that everyone would be better off if I weren’t around.