This is a continuation of my story about my struggle with depression, anxiety, attempt of suicide, and an eating disorder.

First I'd like to start with pictures.

I remember the day I chose this dress for Easter 2016.

All I did was walk into the store and pick the first long-sleeved dress I saw. I tried it on, and the first thing I did was look at my arms to make sure my cuts were not visible.

All of this was less than a week after I first cut.

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This picture was taken on Awards' Day, May 2016. During this time, I was struggling with the binge eating eating disorder and nearly fell into a second eating disorder of excessive exercise.

Can you see how fake my smile was? Can you see how I was only smiling because I was currently being looked at by a crowd of parents that could only see the outside but not the inside?

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This was the summer of 2016. During this summer, I had started to get better. I was overcoming my eating disorder, but I was still constantly obsessed over my weight.

By this point, my cuts had healed, leaving only a single scar behind.

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This is perhaps the darkest picture of all.

This picture was taken two hours before my suicide attempt.

I remember this day most vividly: January 2017. I left my room to get a cup of water. I was still talking to my friend who was telling me about the ex-friend who backstabbed me, but he hadn't told me everything yet. During this conversation, I opened my Snapchat app and found this filter, which instantly became one of my favorites.

If I had died later that evening, that would have been the last known picture of me.

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Three months after my suicide attempt.

We were in Gatlinburg for a band trip.

That trip was when I started to get better, mainly because I had friends that actually cared for me.

Some of them are not pictured, but here are some friends that have helped me through everything.

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And a picture of me that is slightly recent: June 2017.

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To those of you who don't know what a near-death experience is like, let me tell you.

I can't tell you if it's true that colors get more vivid, because all I saw was the barrier of the plastic bag over my eyes.

I felt that bag drain of oxygen, and my throat instantly felt constricted. I couldn't get any air, which was expected. That plastic bag over my head was blocking out any oxygen and was suffocating me, which blocked out all the air I could receive.

The scariest part, however, was nearly losing control of my body.

It seemed like my nerves had failed. The only thing I could feel was the trembling of my hands.

It's a scary thought knowing you're about to die, but even scarier to know its at your own hand.

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Through all of my struggles, I'm left with a single reminder: a scar.

In the picture, you can see subtle traces of other cuts in my skin.

Every time I look at this scar, I don't remember the pain; I remember the journey as a whole.

I remember the blood, the healing, the makeup over my cuts, the laughter, the tears, the sobs, the smiles, the "f*ck you"s, the "I'm sorry"s, the reassurances, the worry, the mockery, the teasing, the concern, the happiness, the sadness, the draining of my life, the second thoughts, the secrets, the bottling of my emotions, the pain, the numbness, the pity, the confusion, the hiding, the concealing, the fear, the entire journey.

I remember everything.

And I hope and pray that none of you ever have to experience what I went through.

I know I could have had it worse, but I know now that the struggles I went through were not easy.

When I look back at my past self, I don't feel ashamed in myself.

I feel proud of myself.

I'm proud of what I've become.

I'm proud that I've survived.

I'm proud that I'm still alive.

And I'm proud that I'm able to write this.

That is my journey, and it's not yet over.