When I was seventeen I became suicidal. The weight of the assault had finally caught up to me and my depression skyrocketed. The thing about suicide is to that person it is anything but selfish. You honestly believe that those you care about would be better off in a world you no longer existed in.
Thankfully my parents were aware and attentive. They took measures that kept me safe. I hated the lockdown back then, but now I am so grateful my parents cared enough to keep me safe.
The first thing they did was lock up all the sharps in the house. They changed the door knob on the pantry so it could lock and all the sharps got put in the pantry. They also bought a small safe to keep in their room where all the medication in the house, even Tylenol got locked up. Also in the safe went razors, sewing needles, and anything else I could possibly use to hurt myself with.
It wasn't convenient for anyone, but it kept me alive. Another step to keep me safe was talking about it. I saw a therapist every week and I also had to rank my severity of symptoms once a day for my mom. I hated doing this so we texted it to each other. When I got to the point I was no longer safe at home I was sent to the hospital. Whatever works.
It is vital to keep the communication and safety steps happening. So often people are suffering and no one talks about it. I have no clue where I came from but there's this idea out there that you can give someone the idea to kill themselves if you ask if they are feeling suicidal. That's ludicrous. I promise you by asking someone you only have the opportunity to help, not hurt.
So I challenge each and every one of you to start talking. If a loved one is struggling with depression open up the door to that conversation. Be willing to have the hard talks. You might just save a life.