It was March 30, 2016. I had been on my psych meds, Cipralex and Seroquel, for 14 days, every one of them filled with nausea, dizziness, self-loathing, and now overwhelming suicidal thoughts. I forced myself to stay on the couch, away from the knives, until my kids got home, and then we went out for a walk. It was cold and foggy outside but I didn’t care. I needed to feel cold air on my face to prove to myself that I was alive. And I figured if I was outside with the kids I wouldn’t do something harmful to myself. But as we walked I realized nothing in my brain was changing and it took everything in me not to jump in front of a truck. Then a white van pulled out of the alley in front of us and my plumber, Mark, waved to us. I waved back and ran over to his window. We chatted for a few minutes, he made me laugh, and then he drove off. Those few minutes were enough to switch my brain from suicide to existence. It didn’t change my mental illness or anything long-term but on that grey and hopeless day at the end of March, it was enough to spark me into living to see the next morning.