This blog post is one I never wanted to write. It's also a blog post I almost didn't get to write.

Five children. The five beautiful children almost left to a husband, their father, to raise. Five incredible children whose lives would be forever affected by a loss no child, no loved one should ever endure. Yes, this could have had an entirely different ending. And because of that, this is a blog post I must write.

Suicide. Such an ugly, horrible word with such a terminal meaning. The final solution to a temporary problem. An irreversible action to a bad day erroneously deemed a bad life. A life with the promise of more good days than bad, nearly left six lives a lifetime of more bad days than good.

Suicide is on the rise. In this past week, I have heard about two suicides too close to home. We might never know the entire scenario that emptied their hearts of hope. But one thing we do know is that their desperation and despondence had the last say. Some leave a note to affirm their love for those they left behind. A note meant to assume blame for what they never allowed their survivors to address. But sometimes there is no note — nothing to bring reason, acceptance, or understanding for those whose lives are left forever incomplete.

I want to take you back to 1996. This young mother who gave birth to five children within eight years found herself on a seesaw; when she was up, she saw all her bestowed blessings. When she was down, her view fell to the soil beneath her feet. She soon toddled the lip of a Teflon tunnel. As her children were losing their need for their fur-bare stuffed animals, baby teeth, and training wheels on their bikes, she was losing her hold. Dark nights led to even darker days where she was failing to see a brighter life to cling to. Her abusive childhood invalidated her desperate attempts to give her children the love her youth never provided.

With increasing depression, she could no longer harken the hope to hold on. She scaled the lip of the Teflon tunnel. She let go, one finger at a time, beginning her exponentially increasing descent down the slippery shaft. Her children, husband, and life diminished as her decision to end her pain strengthened. A final resolution to end the agonizing pain that came with every breath of life.

But then she realized. No goodbye note could adequately convey her appreciation for the man who held her hand as she held on for the past few years. How could she leave him to believe he failed when he gave her all the hope his heart could hold? And her children. How could they be left to wonder forever why they weren't worthy of a mother they loved more than life itself? How could they be one day faced with her own daunting challenge; learning to love their child when their mother couldn't summon enough love to live for them. Might the end of her life eventually drive them to the same dead end?

Her goodbye note was replaced by a call to her husband. She thanked him for loving her when she wasn't worthy of his love. She begged him to ensure their children would understand she genuinely loved them with all the love her hopeless heart tried to hold. But she had to stop her suffering.

He was hearing what he never hoped to face. He pleaded with reason, "You must call your therapist, Marilyn. She needs to know this isn't her fault. She tried to save you." A sudden onslaught of tremendous guilt led her to make this final call to Marilyn, who insisted, "You cannot jump off that ledge to the concrete below. You are already at the bottom."

This powerful truth was the hero who slew the enemy- the evil villain with incessant mortal thoughts steadfastly convincing her to give up. This force that overtook her mind was so brilliantly skilled at turning every consideration of her demise into the validation of why she must kill myself. With certainty, these words reminded her she didn't matter, and without her, the world would be a better place. Telling anyone she wanted to end her life was fruitless; they wouldn't believe her, and they certainly wouldn't care.

This is the fuel that drives a person to commit suicide. The poison that kills our rational thinking. The scalpel that severs the single suture that secured our oozing wounds. That weight that tipped the scale of reason.

I was that woman who almost joined the skyrocketing statists of suicide. I almost listened and followed the commands to leave a life that held such spectacular promise. I think of my amazing husband; his heart holds no bounds and has always loved me unconditionally, beyond all reason. And our five children- they make a difference for a world in need of hope and are the light I would have dimmed

I plead with you, the reader of this blog post that was almost an empty page; if you feel hopeless, know that you will always matter, many people care and will show compassion in listening to your sad, desperate words. Your feelings are real, but your plan is not. Your reasons aren't yours; they are the convincing voice of depression. A bad day isn't a bad life. I am proof of that.

I survived to write my memoir "Room in the Heart," which shares my story of survival. My Facebook pages Iamdanaandrews and Menareabused2 share with over 17,000 survivors the bright flame of hope I almost snuffed out. You and I can decrease the escalating number of suicides by sharing the number of the National Suicide Hotline-(800)273-8255.

Like Marilyn, we have the power to save a life.