At 10, I sat down in my teddy bear chair that was getting a little too small for me, and I wondered what I had done to make my daddy hate me. I thought he must hate me because he threatened my life. Just the night before, I’d heard him say he might turn on the gas to our house, and he said it would be better if we all were to die. But I didn’t want to die! Not then, anyway.

The rest of fourth grade did not get better. After months of begging my daddy to live, I finally lost the battle I waged to save his life. My daddy shot himself to death on traditional Memorial Day in 1989. It was the beginning of my 10th summer and the abrupt end to my childhood.

My heart kept shattering into ever-finer bits every day after his suicide. Someone told me that my daddy’s suicide demons left him when he died and would now follow me for the rest of my life. That shocked and horrified me, and I spiraled into my own suicidal depression. If my dad wanted me to die, maybe I didn’t deserve to live. I felt completely worthless. And my self-loathing made me feel like a burden to this world.

My first suicide note was written in a child’s handwriting on lavender paper, and I put sparkly stickers on it. I was only 10, and I wrote it to my family to explain how sorry I was that I had to go. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt my mom and sister, but I felt everyone would be better off without me.

I thought I could tie all my hair ribbons together and make a noose, but I didn’t go through with it. I’m so glad I didn’t because there are so many things that I’d like to tell my younger self now about being depressed, hating oneself and eventually, surprisingly discovering life on the other side.

That was the first of several suicide notes I wrote but never used. As I grew up, my problems remained rather complex. I developed an eating disorder, and I was bullied as I packed on the pounds. During my teen years at times I considered suicide daily.

The depression continued as I went away to my dream college, got a degree, struggled through my 20s and then landed in an abusive relationship. The man I loved got angry when I tried to leave him and tried to smother me. I felt broken beyond repair as I blamed myself for his cruelty. I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone except my best friend about this pain since I could barely believe that both my dad and my romantic partner had threatened my life. How did I repeat the pattern?

By the time I was in my 30s, my faith in myself and humanity had shriveled to the size of a tiny, overcooked pea. After countless hours spent contemplating suicide, I felt prepared to go through with it.

And then fortuitously a new and true friend stepped in, getting me to open up about my pain and the gently encouraging me to consider therapy. After reading “Someone To Talk To” by Joyce Houser, a book about what really goes on in therapy, I decided to try it.

With a lot of work, therapy helped me start to feel better. I went to support groups for overeaters. I read personal development and self-help books galore. I got out of bed on days when all I wanted to do was stay under the covers. I powered through times when I felt I had to start all over again.

I failed a million times, until I finally had processed what had happened to me. I stopped having flashbacks. I stopped painting my past misery on each present moment. I learned the copying skills that have helped me handle my past when it shows up, to experience each emotion as it comes and then let each one go. After fighting suicidal thoughts for 25 years, I have learned how to live, with a career as a writer that I always dreamed of and a life that I am thankful for.

So here is what I would tell my younger self — and others like her — now that I am 40.