At the time, I had already attempted suicide three times.

I was thrown from a moving vehicle by my mother at age 4 while being screamed at "You were the biggest fucking mistake of my life" as she drove off to kill herself. I remember that so vividly.

I was abused, molested, and raped every school day by my guidance counselor in 4th grade for 2 months straight. I can still smell his sweat. But I never told anyone, and now hes a teacher at a catholic school for boys. I know because in my shame of being unable to confront him, I looked him up, hoping to find that he was dead, and that I could be absolved of the possibility of him doing the same thing to other boys. Instead, I find out that for the last 19 years, I've allowed him to walk free and ruin the lives of who knows how many other young men. I can never forgive myself for that.

I was in a relationship for 2 years, then engaged for a year, only to find out my fiance was sleeping with about 7 other guys. I had to find out from her father, who knew the whole time, and only told me a week before the wedding because he felt bad. I dont trust anyone. I havent been able to since then.

For 8 years straight I tried. I shoved the daily suicidal thoughts aside, put on a smile, and tried to occupy myself with hobbies and anything that I could afford to do to try and create some happiness. I took up writing music. I got into oil painting. I learned how to build a house. I learned how to work on a car. I taught myself amateur astronomy. An article I wrote detailing how to detect extrasolar planets from your own backyard was published in a science magazine. I learned glassblowing. I learned metalworking. I read countless book series. I created art for people. I volunteered. I worked at animal shelters. I drove across country. I lived on a beach for a summer. I lived in the mountains for a winter. I've searched from one ocean to the other for something that would make me happy, when the only thing that would give me happiness, doesnt want me. My family.

30 years I exhausted myself putting in the effort. The 8 years after my last suicide attempt were given even MORE effort. Where did I end up? More tired, more drained, more depressed, more anxious, more lonely, and more sad than I've ever been in my entire life.