Sometimes we take life for granted. We don't just how precious life is. Or how easy it can be ended. I am going to tell you about a very dark part in my life. At the end you may think it to be a huge cliche and I can't promise you will be moved by it, but my story is real and it is raw. And I think now is the time to get my story out there.
Growing up I was very loved by my family. We all were this big group of lovable and goofy people. My father's side takes pride in their Hispanic background and I grew up listening to the stories of the family members I had never gotten to meet.
I loved my life. I was content, I was happy. I wanted to go to school every day, I had so many friends. But were they really my friends?
Things started to change when I entered the fifth grade. We were getting older, maturing into teenagers. I was the late-bloomer, the odd one out. I stayed chubby and short while the rest of my friends shot up five inches and their voices morphed into ones I did not recognize. With this development brought change I never expected.
They picked on me, made fun of me relentlessly for being different. I wasn't into the type of music they were, my hair was shaggy and unkept, my baby fat had yet to burn off and I wore glasses.
Things got worse when they had told the guy I liked about my crush on him. He was popular and good-looking; he had a strong voice amongst the whole grade. Gossip spread like wild-fire, everyone knew. They stared at me in the halls, at lunch and during PE. No place was safe from the burning stares and harsh whispers.
I hated my life. School seemed like my own personal hell and I faked sickness some days just to avoid the torture. My family never suspected a thing; I was good at hiding things from them. Like the words written on my forearms and scratches on my wrists. My life wasn't normal. Weren't ten year olds supposed to be enjoying the last of their elementary years? Making memories with their friends and just having fun?
For my "friends" it was like that. They laughed and played while I was alone. My teachers took no notice; either that or they just didn't care.
I went to a new school after that, hoping things would be different. But it just wasn't that simple. History repeated itself: the guy, the stares, the whispers, the pain and the tears. I was going through a different Hell all over again.
The night of October 24th was the night I had officially attempted to take my own life. I drank two whole bottles of cough syrup and swallowed a bottle of pain killers. I remember laying on my bed with tears streaming violently down my face, waiting for death. I had given up, everyone hated me. And I even grew to hate myself.
I threw up everything I had ingested that night. I took it as a sign that maybe I wasn't supposed to die at that time. Either that or God just wanted me to suffer more. My parents hadn't known their daughter had just attempted suicide, until the moment I told them myself. I needed help and they were the ones I trusted the most, besides my best friend at the time.
My guidance counselor eventually found out about it after a teacher had found a note I had written to my best friend. I was called down to the office where a policewoman was sat there waiting for me. She questioned me about my self-harm and self-destructive behavior. I couldn't even get through half my confession without bursting into tears. I was ashamed of myself, ashamed of the huge turn my life had taken from before. Life just didn't seem real anymore.
She said nothing after my meltdown, simply standing me up and leading me to her car parked outside the school. I asked her where she was taking me and she answered bluntly, as if everything I had just said before had no affect on her.
"Park Place Behavioral Healthcare" was a secluded part downtown in Kissimmee. From the outside it looked welcoming and safe, but only the patients truly know what goes on inside.
Beds made up of rubber and sheets thinner than paper. You were supervised every minute of every day. There were cameras everywhere, in the bathroom, the bedroom and the "play room". Every night they gave out pills and camped outside your door as you slept, the fluorescent lights glaring brightly and the door opened as far as the hinges would allow. It felt like a psych ward, at least that's what I had called it.
It was there that I had been diagnosed with major depression, prescribed medication and my file officially seen by government eyes. I was no longer invisible to people, everything thing I did was charted and reported to supervisors from the state. It was more like a prison than a rehab center.
I was there almost a week, let out at my parent's request. They wanted me back home, where I would be safe and out of the governments' hands. I was released on the evening of Halloween. Little kids were already out with their parents trick-or-treating, running and laughing while I watched them outside the car window, feeling absolutely nothing. I had felt drained, like someone had rid me of all energy and capability to show emotion.
I was broken. I was hollow. I was a shell of my former self.