I wanted to kill myself when I was 12. I self-harmed instead. Took my nails and scratched my arm, bit myself, or took those wood chips from the playground and drew little lines in my skin. I was too young to even understand depression, but I knew that I felt miserable and wish someone stabbed me.
It was raining once and my parents were late to pick me up. I asked my friend "why do we live when we will just die?" An existential question. She told me it was to make the most of it. I didn't understand bc I didn't feel the desire to live.
It never occurred to me to try to kill myself until I turned 18.