What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Although I didn’t realize what it was, throughout senior year of high school I went in and out of depression. I distinctly remember once when, alone, I nearly impaled my right lung in front of my puppy (who stared at me transfixed) as a stormy ambience lightly played in the background. The cut would have been clean, as I had sucked in so much that I could make out the pale impression of my ribs against my skin. When my puppy whimpered, I decided to stay alive a little longer. As I made this decision, the knife slipped from my hands and my mind observed it fall in slow motion. As it lie firmly embedded in the kitchen’s wooden floor, I regret not trying to have intervened as it fell. To this day the disconcerting scar remains, ruining the cheery lavender countertops and richly lit space.

Four years later, my senior year of college: I felt alone and overwhelmed in a school of 18,000 students. I couldn’t figure out where I would fit after I graduated, so I consumed as many 500 mg blue gel Ibuprofens as I could before falling asleep. I hadn’t even gotten under my covers--I had lay myself lightly on top--peaceful as reclining into a coffin.

My last act of compassion--my suicide letter to my parents, saved my life. Medics woke me up and hurried me to Beth Israel where I was immediately given fluids and underwent testing. My family from around the region came to comfort me. The fluid from the IV nearly drained itself entirely into me and I uncomfortably bloated. When I removed it, the flood of blood was as dark as office ink. It was so hypoxic that even exposed to air, it dried as dark as it had bled out. I had always been great at holding my breath--but no one could believe it. A Marvel-made hero, from then on, I never grew tired--For the next two years I would run every morning and only muscle fatigue or boredom could stop me--I never had a cramp, sweat, or was reduced to gasping ever again. A new definition for “blue-blood”?