In seventh grade, I tried to kill myself. I didn't know what spawned my severe depression at the time, but now that I truly think about it, I do. It began when my Great Uncle Robert died of cancer in August of 2009. I realised how much I loved him after he died... I realised I took everything for granted. And then I noticed that the last think he saw before he died was my newborn sister, Sarah. And then I knew that I'd never get to say goodbye. He was so strong, we all just sort of figured he would make it through. He was Uncle Robert, the man I had known for 12 years, the man I ate dinner with most Sundays, the man I had pegged as my idol, the man I loved, and still love, dearly. A little more than a year later, maybe closer to two, I tried to overdose on Tylenol and Motrin. I took 55 pills in less than thirty minutes that night, but my friend called 911. I was admitted to a mental hospital for 6 days and then released. I was back in, about a month later, for 8 days. My friend Ellen was more terrified than she had ever been, and for the first time in what felt like years, but was really only about two years, I felt loved and needed. I felt appreciated. For some reason, the notes of concern for my family did nothing for me, but three words from Ellen ("I was terrified") changed my life.