I remember when I was 11, and I was going into 5th grade. It was the summer that I moved to Austin. I saw this article at my dad's house, and it talked about a friend of his who died. She accidentally shot herself. When I read that, it triggered something in me. I don't know what, but it triggered something I didn't know I had. I started having a bunch of panic attacks. I couldn't sleep, I barely ate, and I was always scared that I'd die. So, one night, I went into my kitchen, I got the sharpest knife I could find, and I held it up to my heart. I pushed hard against my skin, it broke skin, and started to bleed. My mom came in and she found me with blood dripping my body. I started to cry. It sucked so bad. Sadly, I lived, and I'm still here. 

(This is a depressing story, so read at your own risk)