The only people I've ever opened up to were my friends. I told them part of how bad things were once in a blue moon, and even then I regretted it. To make a long story short, things got bad, I said things I shouldn't have and my friends all got together to try and get me into counseling. I fucking told them, in no uncertain terms, how scared I was of that exact thing. They knew how scared I was of counseling, and of them telling other people, and they still decided that it was the best course of action. I'm still not convinced they even gave a shit about me. They just wanted me to stop whining at them, so they tried to get my parents to get a counselor to fill in for them. 
I'm still mad about it. Almost a year later and I still can't open up to anybody who has even a chance of knowing me in real life. It took a year of struggling to even open up partially to anybody and now I'm farther back than from where i started because of it.
And all that was only from telling them part of the truth. If you ask them they'd still say that was the only time I considered killing myself. But really that's the first and last time I slipped up. I spent that whole fucking year planning for it. I researched suicide methods while at lunch with them. Had my city had bridges tall enough I know I would have done it. Part of me still scolds myself for not taking the chance before anybody knew enough to say anything.
And so here I am. Bitching to the internet about my problems because I can't bring myself to trust anybody in real life.