Depressed teenage girl and her mother's support

I know you have had thoughts of killing yourself, and you are not sure why. You feel worthless, and you want to end it. The pain just won’t stop.

You want to tell someone, but you are afraid to. It’s hard to know what to say and to whom. If you do tell someone, will they reject you? Will they think you are joking? Will they laugh at you? If you tell your parents, will they freak out? If you do say something, then what exactly do you say?

I’m going to tell you something I wish I had the opportunity to tell my son. You see, he died by suicide. After his death, many months later, I realized he wanted to tell me in that last phone call, but he was too ashamed and instead ended his life. I will grieve that loss until the day I die. The world is not a better place without him, and I am devastated. I crave his skinny hugs and that squeaky voice he used when he greeted his dog.

I don’t want your parents to have to endure what I have. So I’m going to tell you what has worked for the dozens of young people who have reached out to me for help on how to tell their parents or another relative they have had thoughts of killing themselves.

I know you don’t really want to die. You just want to stop the pain, and you don’t see any other way out.  Your brain won’t let you believe you can feel better, but what is happening in your head is treatable.

1. Make the decision to tell someone.

This takes a lot of courage. I’m asking you, as a mom who has lost the most precious person in the world to her, to please make the decision to tell someone because it will hurt them to lose you. Asking for help is not a weakness, but a strength. It takes guts.

2. Decide who is the best person to tell.

It might not be a parent. It might be an aunt, a grandmother or a teacher. If you don’t tell a person you know, then text the crisis hotline or call the suicide hotline. Sometimes talking to them can help you get the nerve to tell your loved ones.

3. Figure out the best way to tell someone that works for you.

Be direct. Don’t use phrases like, “I want to hurt myself.” Say instead, “I have something very important to tell you. This is not a joke. Can I trust that you will listen? I have been thinking of killing myself, and I need help. I don’t understand these feelings.”

They may say things like, “You have so much to live for!” or “You shouldn’t feel that way.” Be patient with them because they don’t know what to say or do at first. It’s likely they may say something in a way that makes you feel like they don’t understand, and they don’t. It’s up to you to help them understand.

4. If you do not want to sit down face to face, write your mom or dad a message.

It might make you feel anxious to face them directly. It can be good for them to have an opportunity to think and figure out what to do. A letter or message (text, Facebook message or email) can be an effective means of communicating. Many of the people who have reached out to me preferred sending a message and talking face to face after their mom or dad gets the message.

If you are really feeling like dying by suicide right then, do not wait. Call or tell someone now! Don’t wait because we want to save your life.

Many parents tell me that once their child told them they have had thoughts of suicide, they are relieved there was a reason for their child’s behavior. Many times parents can’t figure out why their son or daughter was getting in trouble with police, driving recklessly or getting angry all the time. They are usually stunned, but they are also thankful and grateful. Most of them feel honored that their child trusted them with this information.

You need to say something because suicide could be the last thing on a parent’s mind. They might not think of asking you. This is not because they don’t care, but because it’s the last thing they think you would do. They don’t know how bad it hurts or how close you’ve been. You may have even attempted suicide before, and they have no clue.

If you leave us, then you take with you the gifts that we have not even realized you have. I want you to know you are worth it. The truth is, your parents would rather hear you ask for help than lose you.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.

If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. You can reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Image via Thinkstock.

RELATED VIDEOS


Being an EMT in a significant city, I see all kinds of calls. Some calls let us walk away holding our heads high. Others never really let us walk away. Some of our hardest days are when we get an emergency call for a person who is suicidal. As someone who has battled depression for half my life, these calls can be particularly devastating — for everyone — including me, the responder. However, this piece is not about me, just as those calls are not about me. I write this to say on behalf of all of EMS (EMTs, paramedics, nurses, doctors): I am sorry.

common criticism of first responders and hospital personnel is that we do not treat those asking for help like their illness, and the crisis it is causing them, is real. It’s true — many of us don’t respond to mental health emergencies like we should. We are criticized for following strict regulations, whether we agree with them or not, about how to treat suicidal patients. We are often described as “cold and cruel” towards our patients. I’ve been told many times that I simply don’t know what it is like living with something like depression and that is why I act that way (entirely untrue). But for me, this happens because of the nature of my job. Sometimes only moments before responding to your mental health emergency, I was doing CPR on a child or wrestling with someone on drugs. It is difficult to go from that type of chaos into your home and be the warm and understanding presence you wish we were. Other times, because there have been calls where I was dispatched to a person threatening suicide and showed up too late, I arrive with my guard up, prepared for the worst.

I am not trying to make excuses.

I know firsthand the pain and fear of a suicidal episode, and I know you deserve better from us. This is not meant to excuse our wrongful behavior toward you, of which I am guilty; this is a plea for forgiveness. This is my attempt to tell you that we do see you. You are real to us and so is your hurt, and we are terribly sorry we haven’t always shown it in our actions.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.
If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Thinkstock photo by Chalabala


Editor’s note: If you experience suicidal thoughts or have lost someone to suicide, the following post could be potentially triggering. You can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.

Disclaimer: This is only how one person, I, attempted to make sense of something that will never really make sense.

“I see no changes. Wake up in the morning and I ask myself, ‘Is life worth living? Should I blast myself?’”

This lyric begins the Tupac Shakur song, “Changes,” released as a remix in 1998, two years after his death. And one year before my brothers.

An old photo of the author and her two brothers

My brother, Rob, was a fan of Tupac and other 90’s hip hop and rap luminaries. Although his struggles took place in a land far, far away from theirs, he seemed in some ways to relate to their distress.

Rob was born into a loving family, with privilege and opportunity aplenty. He had an easy smile and a generous heart. His nature was silly and he was easily and fully loved by all.

To many, it may seem strange that Rob would have identified with Tupac and the type of music he put out.  But he did. I believe they both were innately disturbed by inequality and injustice in a such a profound way, it would be impossible for either to ignore their sorrow, for the moment, in order to function as if it weren’t there.

Many of us, including me, rely on self-preservation tools: compartmentalize, ignore, focus on the positive, in order to find happiness and satisfaction in a world that can be really sad and scary. We employ them so that we can be productive rather than overcome by guilt, horror and hopelessness. I don’t believe Rob had access to, nor desired, those tools. Perhaps Tupac didn’t either.

Robbie and I were very close as children. We had the same compliant exterior, but we masterfully balanced it with a wicked and wacky sense of humor we only shared with those we trusted, or those we thought it would be fun to shock. Our brother, Abe, was more of confident “take me as I am” type of person, which has always served him well. The three of us made sense together.

As kids, we laughed a lot and we possibly fought more. We traded bedrooms and promised each other we’d never “hit you or bite you” in exchange for that person’s night to sleep with our dog. Or for assurance that whatever naughtiness had ensued would not be mentioned to Mom or Dad.

No matter the mood, we were big sister and little brothers. Along with our parents, we were the “Goldberg Five.” A non-changing, permanent, fixed, for-better-or-worse basic assumption. A given that wasn’t challenged for the first 23 years of my life.

After I graduated from high school, I set out to start my new life. With my close friend, Amy, my new plaid comforter (for my new dorm bed!) and excited nervousness about my newfound independence, I left the safety of the Goldberg Five for Ohio University.

During my freshman year, my brothers came to visit for the famous OU “Sibs Weekend.” I fulfilled what I thought to be my older sister responsibility and made sure they had a ton of fun, ate a late night bagel and went home hungover. Each goal was accomplished and then some.

Time does what it does and moved quickly along. Abe joined me at OU the next year. Rob started West Virginia University two years after that.

Family times occurred quite often in the years that followed, but the specifics blur together. It now seems as if Rob was visiting me my freshman year and then in the blink of any eye, I was doing the unthinkable. Preforming the final Jewish act of honoring a loved one; shoveling dirt upon his grave.

“Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change.” — Thomas Hardy

An old photo of the author and her two younger siblings wearing sunglasses

As I learned later, Rob’s sadness had flared during his first couple of years after high school. I knew that he was having a tough time. He’d left WVU during, or maybe never started, his sophomore year and I didn’t know quite why. I knew he liked to party. I knew being a student hadn’t always been easy in the past. I knew he was like me in many ways, so depression and anxiety were quite possible. But I didn’t, by any stretch of my imagination, know how utterly in despair he was.

The last time I was with Rob was at my grandmother’s funeral. She died too young, too vibrant. It didn’t make sense and was utterly heartbreaking. He seemed a bit off during the time we spent in Wheeling for her funeral. We were staying in a cabin with our aunts, uncles and cousins. Being sad around others has never been comfortable for many of us, so we all tended to focus on the positive and spoke of happy memories.

Rob was withdrawn. Until bedtime. At which time, he decided to teach our young cousins his favorite rap songs. He went a line at a time, and as they repeated completely inappropriate (in so many ways) lyrics, they, and everyone else in the cabin, laughed hysterically.

I was annoyed. And, begrudgingly charmed by his ability to be utterly brash and tasteless, yet still have mourning people in stitches. It wasn’t until he mentioned my grandmother’s passing in his final letter to our family that I understood the overwhelming sadness he felt by losing her.

Life is a trip. It typically moves along without too many memorable moments, good or bad. It can even be boring and uninspiring at times. Most changes naturally evolve and are only noticed in retrospect. One small difference leading to another small difference and then another. At a snail’s pace.

It may seem sudden that you find yourself in a new place, with a new and improved perspective, but in actuality, much of the journey simply went unnoticed.

Then there are times, like when I learned that Rob was gone, when your world is rocked in an instance. When all of those basic assumptions crumble to the ground. When the world seems strange and unreliable and even unreal.

A beautiful June morning. Walking my favorite dog. Just moved in with a boyfriend — assured proposal soon to follow. Graduate school signed up for — check. Things are moving right along.

Boyfriend’s car pulls up. At the park. Confusion — it’s only 10 a.m. It’s a weekday. Did he miss me that much? He tells me to get in the car. Confusion.

I ask him what’s going on. He looks stressed. I become worried.

“It’s Dedaddy —  I know it’s my Dedaddy! Is it Dedaddy?”

“No, he’s fine.”

“Oh no. What’s going on?”

Confusion. Hyperventilation.

“Is something wrong? Someone is hurt? In my family? Is it my brother?”

Silence. Then.

“You need to call home.”

Call home. Mom.

“Rob shot himself this morning”.

Drop phone. Run to kitchen floor and collapse. Scream. Cry. Hope!

“Is he OK?”

Maybe he’s in the hospital recovering!

“No” And more, but I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t process.

He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone.

Scream? Cry? Silence?

Next thing I remember is being driven to Charleston.

This type of change is sudden, abrupt, jarring. Immediate. Rash. It doesn’t allow for time to prepare or the luxury of slow acceptance. To learn that my sibling, my brother, was gone, on his own accord, for me, was to learn that life is indeed unjust.

To digest the information that he suffered so. That he left us because he didn’t have hope. That he loved us. That he didn’t want us to be sad. To this day: unfathomable, unacceptable and completely heart-wrenching.

I was able to evoke those good ole’ self-preservation strategies for a time: smile ’till you feel happy, relate it all to science, find happiness in his lack of pain, find comfort in G-d, find comfort in coincidences, put it on the back burner, write in journals, live life to its fullest.

But it never was and never will be truly OK. And I’m glad I’ve come around to accepting that.

An old photo of the author's brother, Rob Rob is remembered by many for his devilish grin. His pixieish good looks. His strong relationships with family and friends. His silly antics.

I am simultaneously thankful for and haunted by my favorite moments with him. Our car game, “Complete Control.”  He and Abe playing He-Man and Star Wars, and WWF Wrestling. The silly, and completely annoying, tricks he played on my friends, who usually blamed poor Abe. His love of Gatorade. Him opting to sleep in the bathtubs of hotel rooms. His love of Curious George and his giant stuffed dog, Bogie. He and Abe suddenly offering to be in charge of getting all of the family’s cars washed on a weekly basis (coinciding with the discovery of the topless carwash a few towns over), him all bundled up in a snowsuit, him asking us to start calling him Bob, rather than Rob…

I wish he was here. He’d be that uncle who the kids loved to hang out with. He would still be making us all smile and laugh. He’d eat strawberries dipped in powdered sugar with me. We’d laugh and we’d fight. And the world would seem normal once again.

“How can the Devil take a brother if he’s close to me? I’d love to go back to when we played as kids but things changed, and that’s the way it is.” — Tupac, Changes

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.

If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or text “START” to 741-741.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Images via Joy Redmond


The fact that people can kill themselves — and the fact that people do kill themselves — is an uncomfortable truth we don’t want to face. It’s much easier to think that other people do that, weak people do that. I don’t do that. How could I ever do that?

It’s easy to say that if you don’t know what it’s like.

Because the truth is, suicidal thoughts and being suicidal is a phenomenon that happens to all sorts of people — and clearly ignoring the issue isn’t making it go away. The more we try to understand, the more compassion we can have for those who are suicidal, and then hopefully, the more we can help those struggling before it’s too late.

To give a voice to people who have been suicidal, we asked members of our community to describe what feeling suicidal is like for them. Their answers are a little hard to read, so if you need help right now you can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. You can also text START to 741-741 to reach the Crisis Text Line.

Hopefully this will help others understand:

1. “It feels like nothing matters anymore, not even you. You’ll start to feel like a burden, like you’re pulling everyone down with you and they’ll be better without you.”

2. “You feel dead inside and you’re just a ghost living in a body you don’t recognize. You look in the mirror and you see a stranger. A pale, tired, miserable stranger that kind of looks like you. What once made you happy is now tedious, and what once made you just a little bummed out makes you want to die.”

3. “It feels like you’re all alone and no matter what’s said to you, you feel like it’s not true or doesn’t matter. It feels like you just need to end it all because you’re so tired of fighting every single day.”

4. “When at it’s worst, I feel like I’m drowning in the middle of an entire ocean, and ‘death’ is a floating raft. All I can do is choose to keep wading until I completely exhaust myself, or climb on.”

5. “You scroll through your phone contacts in your moment of deepest need and believe that there isn’t a single person who would help you without resenting you. At that moment you feel as if you’ve been lying to yourself all along about how much you matter.”

6. “You feel helpless and no matter what you do or say, you won’t matter and will never be enough. Every piece of you feels like letting go because at least then the anxiety will be at rest for once.”

7. “I didn’t realize what I was feeling until I came out of it. It felt like I wasn’t breathing, I was drowning and someone was holding my head under water. I was lost, alone and there was no other way out. No one understood me and no one ever would. When I finally broke free of the deep suicidal thoughts, I was able to see them for what they were, not before or during. I felt choked by the emotions and blinded by them.”

8. “So dark and hopeless. You get this tunnel vision surrounded by pain and the only way out is to end it all. The numbness is so deep and excruciating it overwhelms and drains everything out of you. Words can’t even describe how lonely and terrifying it is.”

9. “Time stops, and all you can do is feel, no thinking or rationalizing — just feel. You’re engulfed by the darkness and are so tired of fighting to get to the surface so you just sit there and accept it.”

10. “It’s numb: My field-of-view is blurry, and I see black vignette; my mind goes on auto-pilot, while I can feel and hear my subconscious screaming, ‘Please don’t do it.’”

11. “It feels like your subconscious has been taken over by the depression and it feeds you negativity constantly until you start to believe being alive is the issue.”

12. “I feel like a ghost, like a shell of a person who’s lost their way in life. There’s nothing inside me, no heart beating, no thoughts racing… It’s just so numb. There’s just nothing there anymore, so I wonder why I’m still here.”

13. “It feels like drowning, I’m out of my depth in a sea of desperation. I have just enough strength to push myself up to take a breath, but not for long enough to scream for help.”

14. “You feel like you already no longer exist, like you are in the way, useless, worthless, unworthy and a burden. It’s like an elephant sitting on you, holding you down, keeping you from living but somehow keeping you alive, making you watch lifeless and numb as everyone carries on around you unaware you even exist, unaware you are fighting inside. It’s a shadow many call stress, a shadow that will become darkness when one last time that person shrugs it off as just stress.”

15. “It feels like you will never feel better and you make the ones you love unhappy. Friends drift away. You feel so alone. They believe your phony smile and they don’t know you scream in the shower or alone in the car. You’re tired of hurting from a pain — there is no cure for, that will only end with the last beat of your heart.”

16. “A constant ache in my heart, my lungs, my wrists, my legs, my mind and the pit of my stomach. The ache that tells me nothing is sacred, everything is pointless. That nothing ever has or ever will matter. Why must I continue breathing? Why must I keep getting out of bed everyday when I am so incredibly tired? Feeling utterly worthless, to the point that you wonder if your own children would be better off without you around.”

17. “It feels like the pain inside of you has so far exceeded your threshold, that your only option left is to give up and give into it. You’ve already been drowning for so long and your fighting to swim to shore isn’t getting you anywhere closer, just wearing you out, like you’re swimming the wrong way in a riptide and drifting further, screaming at a shore of people who can’t hear your words or tell that you’re drowning. You feel incapable of bearing the pain or fighting a long fight anymore; you feel like all you have left in you is the few minutes of fight and ‘courage’ to make it all stop. After all, you think the world and everyone in it will be better off without you anyway, and that they will all quickly forget your existence. Struggling briefly to force yourself underwater and give into its darkness feels so much more surmountable than the seemingly endless, futile struggle of trying to reach the light of the shore instead.”

18. “It’s such an odd state of being. You feel so, so alone regardless of the people you love supporting you. It doesn’t matter what age, color, race, or background.”

19. “It feels like the contents of your body are constantly pouring out of you; you have nothing, but you feel everything.”

20. “Like my own brain has turned against me. I don’t know myself anymore and any memory of happiness has been completely extinguished as if it never existed. The only escape seems to be abandoning my own body. I want to jump out of my own skin and into oblivion.”

21. “After feeling like I am just being dragged by time through life rather than actually being able to participate in it, my greatest desire is that if I lie down and stop moving, that maybe I will just cease to exist.”

22. “Every emotion is painful… every thought is dark… helplessnesses only rivalry is hopelessness. You can see no future only endless reels of the past. Everything loses it’s meaning… you’re empty.”

23. “Empty, useless, unwanted, not good enough. Those feelings are what make you start to think about those dark thoughts which turn into those questions that you ask yourself, ‘Is it worth it?’ ‘Does it matter anymore?’ ‘Will anyone miss me?’”

24. “It feels like the world is crumbling on top of you, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t hold it up anymore. You feel lost and confused at why things that once made you happy now just feel like a requirement.”

25. “Feels like you have left your body. Grayish mist all around. Your demons now come to hunt you down and beg you to die, but your strength does not allow it… You wake up with this thought you dreamed and now it’s clear.”

26. “Constant stress. It’s not black or white. It’s grey. It’s feeling so, so sad, you can’t describe it in words, only in actions, it’s feeling lonely even though people tell you every day they love you. And so much more.”

27. “All the air has been sucked out, and no matter how hard I try to breathe, scream, run away or get anyone’s attention, I’m still being slowly crushed and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

28. “It feels like someone put you in a small room with all the bad things that you’ve experienced, all the worst parts about yourself, and you feel like there’s no way out of that room.”

29. “It feels like all the good has already left your body — passion, goals, dreams, hope, motivation, joy. The only answer is to kill the bad — pain, misery, anger, fear, shame.

30. “It feels like your bad thoughts are a permanent rain cloud over your head. Every rain drop stings your skin and the only way to get it to stop is to end everything.”

31. “The thought of death formed as a monster in my head. It is after me, I cannot run away from it. I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to live, either. The pain is too much strong, so I desperately think I cannot take another day. But deep down inside of me, I always have a tough wish to see another day — as a human instinct, I guess. I grabbed this very little feeling to go on. I hope everyone else will [too].”

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.

If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or text “START” to 741-741.

*Some answers have been edited for length and clarity.




31 People Describe What It's Like to Be Suicidal


I am walking in honor of my son Ryan Lazovitz.

A young man hugging his little sister My son struggled with mental illness for several years. We did seek help during this time. I left no stone unturned. Ryan was the most amazing and loving baby. He was a joy and always made me proud. He grew into an amazing young man. A phenomenal athlete: karate, tennis, baseball, surfing and basketball. He loved it all.

At about 13 to 14 years old, everything changed. I saw sadness. A sadness that broke my heart. As a mom I did everything I could to help him. We had ups and downs for years. He attempted suicide a few times and we got him the best help we could find. My fear was what would happen when he turned 18. When I was no longer included in every important decision that would affect his health and wellbeing. I prayed I did everything I could to help — help him as he became a man.

At 18 years old, struggled with depression, bipolar and ADHD, he had a hard time advocating for himself. Ryan entered a facility and I was shut off from communication from him, the doctors and treatment. I went from being 110 percent involved to nothing. He was not prepared for this.

Because of my experience, I feel strongly about the fact that as parents we are no longer involved once our children turn 18. Yes, they are still our children and as his parent I wanted to do my best to help him. Because of his age, I was no longer allowed to help my son advocate when deep depression overtook him. He started spiraling and couldn’t find a way back.

My beautiful boy took his life two days after Christmas. Eleven months ago. He was 18.

A woman and her son at the beach

The thought of never seeing him again still scares me. Sometimes reality hits me in waves and some days I either ride them out or frantically try to grasp for air.

I had Ryan at 23. We grew up together. And now I’m left with a part of my heart missing. Never the same again.

But I will still be his voice. And a voice for others. I know have post-traumatic stress disorder. I will be the voice for those who do not have one. For all the young adults who died too soon. I will fight so that other loving parents can be there for their children. 

For now, I walk for Ryan.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.

If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or text “START” to 741-741.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.


Suicide. Intrinsically linked with mental illness, help is frequently provided for families who have lost a loved one to suicide. There’s even a title for those family members: “suicide survivors.” But what about people with mental illness who lose their friend with mental illness?

Mental illness can be a lonely journey, where day in and day out, someone battles with their own imperfect mind, often surrounded by people who do not understand what it’s like to have mental health problems. For those of us who reach out for help, a hospital stay is often required.

Within these hospitals, patients often befriend each other. Bonds form over similar experiences, even if the diagnoses differ. And why not? The pull of friendship makes the experience of living with mental illness a less lonely one, a shared struggle, where friends help each other through their days. Indeed, many people with mental health issues become naturally more empathetic and compassionate souls, as they learn what it means to struggle and don’t like seeing it in others. Friendships form as a natural response to this.

But with making friends with others with mental health issues comes a dark, little spoken of truth: We almost inevitably will lose someone to suicide. I, personally, have lost at least five friends in the last three years and am writing this essay whilst digesting the knowledge that the latest death happened mere days ago. She was a beautiful soul, whom I met during one of my stints in a psych ward and kept in touch with on the outside over Facebook. I don’t regret the friendship for one moment, quite the opposite. It has been a gift.

But it’s hard losing loved ones to an illness I too have. I can’t help wondering, who will it take next and will it ever be me? My heart goes out to the people around me, should I ever become a suicide victim. My family, naturally, but especially my friends who, like myself, have a mental illness. I know the loss and heartache. We’ve shared those feelings before when we’ve rallied together over the loss of some of our numbers. I know the fear. It brings home just how potentially deadly this illness can be.

At the psych ward I’ve been to there is no inpatient group for patients who have lost friends to suicide. There is a group on grief and loss, but it’s more generic in nature. It makes me wonder why. It’s not like they’re unaware we befriend each other. They see it in action on a daily basis. Are they afraid there might be a “copycat” fallout if the “elephant in the room” is spoken about? Who knows.

What I do know is it needs to be addressed. It’s not enough to rely upon other people with mental illness – our friends – to help us grieve the loss of one of our own. We are strong people, but we are also vulnerable at times. There needs to be something official put in place. There needs to be resources both online and offline designed for our particular demographic, to really deal with this issue.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.

If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Image via Thinkstock

Real People. Real Stories.

8,000
CONTRIBUTORS
150 Million
READERS

We face disability, disease and mental illness together.