Bridget Flaherty 

"When I got back from treatment, my 11-year-old son asked me if I was as 'bad' as Robin Williams. I told him that was why I got help. 

His resulting anger made me wonder if I was selfish. 

'Did you even consider how that would affect me?' He yelled. 

I said that I was here now and that I loved him. But the truth was that when I sat in my car with my loaded 9mm handgun, I wasn't thinking about anything other than the unbearable pain within myself. 

I just wanted it all to be over. I felt trapped in a life that was unbearable. I didn't fire the gun that night; I also didn't get help for almost three months. 

I gave my gun to someone for safe keeping, but the pain didn't go away. The thoughts of death didn't end. 

So, when I found myself looking over the edge on 22nd floor of a hotel balcony, I watched myself fall. 

Instead of jumping, I cut. 

I watched the blood and felt the pain. And this daily practice continued: each day a little deeper, until I broke. 

And I asked for help. 

That is why I am here today, why I am alive, why I am awake. 

I chose to ask for help and I chose to stay."