and so the journey begins

There are a few moments I can recall being scared for my life. Floating through the air in slow motion, simultaneously aware of the boat getting farther away and the water quickly approaching, not sure if the impact of hitting the solid surface or drowning will be my killer. Swerving through three lanes of traffic at seventy miles per hour, grasping to no avail for control of my vehicle. Sitting in the corner of the campground in a stupor, vomit dripping down my chin, wondering if I will die before any of my friends notice my cries for help. In the back of my mind, though, I always knew the fear of dying would not be realized. I would be saved, be pulled out of the darkness because I had people who loved me and I was meant to keep living, I had too much to do to die right now; that is, until my life started to crash and burn and snowball into an ugly mess I had seemingly no control over. There were days I really wondered if I was going to live. It didn't seem to be worth it, the way things were going. I am not the type of person to seem suicidal - bubbly, constantly with friends and cracking jokes, the "smart" and "funny" one - and I wasn't suicidal, at least not in the way our society has defined it. I do not and never will hold the capacity to purposefully kill myself. The guilt would be too much to bear. I knew, after the suicides of two of my classmates, the lifelong damage it caused to your family, friends, and even acquaintances, like me. I hardly knew either of the boys, but a switch is flipped when you realize that the world is no longer a welcoming place, and for some people, the need to escape is so dire that they are willing to ruin their little spot in the world in order to get out. I could never purposefully ruin the lives of my parents, the ones who would do anything to ensure my safety and happiness, or even my friends, who I knew cared at least a little bit under their superficial facades and fake laughs.  However, I figured if something were to happen by accident, I would not be at fault. If a tragedy occurred and I was one of the unfortunate casualties, could I be blamed? I began to hope for a stroke of luck - a car crash, a fire, a psychotic murderer to break in through my bedroom window and end it all for me. These hopes made things worse, because I felt a lack of control in what happened to me. Control has always been my method of coping - through my plunge into bulimia and anorexia, in my meticulous organization and scheduling stemming from OCD, in my countless promises to myself to be better, do better, finally perfect my life - and without it, I spiraled into apathy. I could not end my life, I could not make it better. I had no control, and it left me mentally and emotionally drained. The promises of improvement and healing faded into the background of my mind, and I focused on getting through each school day so I could get in bed and forget. There were bright spots, of course. My golf team, for one, made life almost worth living. My new friends finally allowed me to let go, to peek out from behind my facade of cheeriness and superficiality, and laughing until I couldn't breathe was a medication I needed more than the one I was prescribed. Golf practice was an escape, where I could laugh and be myself and be outside with the people I loved most in the world. The season has ended, though, and my tether to happiness is no longer connected to me. I am not healed. I am trying, now, though. There is a glimmer of hope, and I am going to hold onto it as hard as I can for as long as I can. I am going to be happy, or die trying.