This part of my story starts in the beginning of my senior year in high school, August-September 2012. At that point, I had already been dealing with all of this for four years. Since I was 13. I started self-harming and being suicidal. I don’t remember ever really being ok, And it had gotten much worse, from when I thought it couldn’t.

First, this isn’t intended to put anyone in a bad light. My parents care about me very much and don’t want me to be hurt by myself or anything else. But no ones perfect. We all say things we don’t mean. They felt they were doing the best they could and doing what they thought was best. Not everyone understands mental illness. And not everyone will. I also want to point out that I was ill. The way I perceived things may or may not have been the way they actually were. There are still two sides to every story. But this is what happened through my eyes and how I felt. I broke it into sections since it is a bit lengthy.

I thought the end of this was the end of my journey. Far from it.

My Struggle During School

In September, when I was still in school, the beginning of my senior year, I was feeling horrible. It was to the point that I couldn’t function. I couldn’t do my homework, or take tests, or understand what the teacher was saying; even in Spanish, and I love Spanish. Instead of doing my work in class, I would often chat with Crisis Chat (The only text enabled crisis intervention center they had back then) over the Wifi. I was so depressed that I felt like crying all the time. I broke down in Psychology, Math, English, Spanish, Science, PE, and if I couldn’t couldn’t keep enough control to stay in class, I’d ask to use the bathroom, but once I got inside, I’d start crying, and I wouldn’t be able to stop for quite a long time. I would cry so hard my whole body would shake, and I couldn’t breathe because the sobs wouldn’t stop coming out, and my chest would hurt with emotional pain that I longed to escape.

There’s a day like that that particularly stands out in my memory. I remember being very depressed one day (nothing out of the usual) and I literally couldn’t do anything. I felt as if I couldn’t even move. I was in Ms. Smith’s science class during 4th hr. Ms. Smith was a new teacher for me, and knew nothing of my history. But my depression was overwhelming, and I could tell that I wouldn’t be able to stay in control much longer. We were just quietly working on a class assignment, so I went up to Ms. Smith, and just said, “I’m really, really depressed right now” She asked me, “Well, do you need to go somewhere? Guidance or anything?” “Can I just go to the bathroom and cry?” I asked. She said, “sure, just take the pass”. It took me a little awhile to find the bathroom, but when I did, I could barely stay in control. The second I shut the door to the stall, I burst into tears. I huddled in the corner, making myself as small as possible, with my knees up to my chin. My body started shaking, and I couldn’t breathe. I started sweating. I tried to stop crying, but I couldn’t. I longed for a blade, but I didn’t have one. I started to talk out-loud to myself, but my voice was just a whisper, in-between the sobs. I can remember saying “If you keep feeling like this, I’ll let you go.” “I’ll get you out of here, I promise”. Apparently, I had been gone awhile, and Ms. Smith got worried. I saw two feet appear in front of the door, and a voice said, “Theresa, you need to open that door right now, I need to make sure you’re okay.” “I’m fine”, I said. I was fine, I mean I wasn’t cutting, and I wasn’t trying to kill myself, I was just crying. I thought it was Ms. Smith, so I opened the door, even though I was still crying, but the guidance counselor was standing there! I was so scared. “You’re not okay” she said. “Come on, we’re going to guidance”. I still couldn’t stop crying. I didn’t even know why I was crying, I just knew that I felt sad, and I hurt inside from emotional pain. It was a long time before I finally stopped crying. Of course, they called my parents. They even wanted to send me home (something that they’d done quite often) I had to get on the phone, and convince my mom not to come pick me up. I talked to guidance for awhile, not telling them, obviously, that I wanted to die, or that I wanted to cut, after all, it had been almost six months since the last time. I finally stopped crying, and managed to convince them to let me go back to class.

That kept happening. I kept crying often, and I knew I had to find some way out. I felt that my situation was hopeless, because my parents weren’t letting me try meds, (they felt it wasn’t what I needed, wouldn’t help, and had too many bad side effects) and because of that, I felt that I would never feel any better, and that it would be better do die than to stay and feel all the pain. I did recognize, however, that there were still some good things in life, but the bad overpowered the good. I knew that if I did kill myself, that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy any of the good that there still was (which wasn’t much), but I wouldn’t be able to feel all the bad either, and I would rather not feel anything at all (with the exception of self-injury) than to feel all the pain that I was feeling at that point. But things kept getting worse and worse. My grades slid. I couldn’t do my homework. I couldn’t make myself care about it enough to do it, and I felt that I never had the energy. I didn’t even do all of my Spanish assignments, and I love Spanish. Dr. Martina, my Spanish 4 AP teacher, thought it was strange too, and asked me about it. Almost in tears, I told her, in Spanish, that it wasn’t this class, that it wasn’t that the 4AP class wasn’t too hard, it was just that I was so depressed that I could hardly do anything. I told her it was like that for all of my classes, and even worse in the other ones.

I kept looking for a way out, knowing that my first choice would be going to the I-10 bridge.

Then I discovered tutoring after school – and the bridge- which was 2.5 miles to the center, and a 45 min, walk from the school. Tutoring was for one hour after school – plenty of time. Ms. Olsen , my Spanish teacher from the previous two years, had to stop me – a lot. Once she caught me, and took me to tutoring, and told me to sit in the hallway where there cameras, and not told me not to move until Mr. Bennett, my math teacher from two years ago, who did tutoring after school, got there. Later on (Still August) I set a date to do it. Ms. Olsen stopped me once more. The worst time was on my chosen date – September 6, 2012.

I did research, and developed a detailed plan. I found out that the bridge was 175 feet high (Bridge deck to water) (I was also drawing it in my art class, for the very reason that I wanted to jump off it). I wanted to be sure that it would work if I made it over the side, knowing that surviving an attempt like that would make everything much worse. I calculated the free-fall acceleration, and discovered that if I jumped, I would hit the water going between 70 and 75 miles an hour. I studied street maps, and looked at street views, to be sure I wouldn’t get lost. Facing the school, go left, straight down Government, under the first set of overpasses, past the McDonalds, and a left onto St. Ferdinand. Take the ramp up to the bridge.

I had started planning for the 6th about 15 days in advance. I would write a suicide note, and put it in my locker, make sure one of my friends has my combination. I was going to give Ms. Olsen a framed 8×10 picture of me jumping my favorite horse, and tell her I was staying for tutoring, and then leave for the bridge. I didn’t care about the speed of the traffic there, or that there was no shoulder, or that someone might notice I was walking where no one walked, and they would jump out and stop me. I just didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. I hated myself, and I honestly thought that everyone would be better off if I was gone. I felt that I didn’t deserve to have anyone even speak to me.

Ms. Olsen found out that I was going to do it, and when, I still don’t know how. I never told her outright. Anyway, that morning, she asked me how I was doing, and she asked “What’s it going to be?” “Do you want the truth?” I asked. “Yes” “Well, I honestly don’t know right now – it’s 50-50” I passed by her almost every class that day, and gave her the same answer. It was 7th hr, and I was still at 50-50. I had already written a suicide note, and was going to put it in my locker, but I wasn’t sure I was going to do it. But then, in the last 10 minutes of 7th hr., a wall of sadness and pain hit me. It was horrible. I couldn’t think about anything else except the bridge. Immediately, I knew I was going. I was so upset that I could barely talk. As soon as the bell rang, I bolted out the door and ran up the stairs to my locker (Right next to Ms. Olsen’s room). I was up to the third floor so fast, that I was up almost before anyone started to come down. I got to my locker, and Ms. Olsen’s room was already dark, and her door was closed. “Good, I thought; She won’t stop me this time” I spun my locker combination, and opened it. I spotted Ms. Olsen walking down the hall with another person. I ripped open my backpack, and started throwing everything at random into my locker. Ms. Olsen just happened to glance behind her at that moment. She saw me, and told the other person to wait a minute. Then she approached me, and asked me if I was okay. Her face was full of concern. I said “I’m fine. Just leave me alone!”, more forcefully than I intended. My hands and legs were trembling as I continued to throw everything in my locker.”That face tells me you’re not okay” “Look”, I said, “you can go if you need to, I’ll be fine.” “I think I need to call your dad” she said. “You’re not going to call anyone!” “Come on”, she said. “I’ll go to tutoring, okay?” “Come on” she said again. I was scared that she was going to take me to the guidance office where they would all call my parents, but she didn’t. She took me to tutoring. I found out through Mr. Bennett that Ms. Olsen said that he shouldn’t let me go anywhere, or leave the room, and she also told him that I was acting strange. “Apparently even stranger than you always do,” he said. Ms. Olsen also told him that it would be a good idea if he walked me to my ride, which he did.

The next morning, Ms. Olsen saw me, and said, “I’m glad you’re here.” I said, “That wasn’t my choice.” She just shrugged. Ms. Olsen saved my life that day. Later on in September, I decided that I would try to get help. I found out through Crisis Chat that because I was 17, I could check myself into a hospital without parent consent. So that’s what I decided to do. I knew that I would probably be pulled out of the school, and loose my riding lessons, but I also knew that the way I was going, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy anything anyway, so I decided to do it. If I didn’t, I knew I would kill myself.

I called the suicide hotline after school. They sent the ambulance. By this time, I had started cutting again, even though I managed to go 6 months without doing it. I walked out the front door of the school. I headed in the direction of the bridge, but I didn’t get far, because an ambulance, a fire truck, and about five police cars pulled up in front of the school. The officers got out and surrounded me. They asked me if I was okay all I could do was nod rapidly, even though I knew I was anything but okay. I was too distraught to speak. One of the officers held my arm, and another one took my backpack off. They asked me if I had anything on me that they should know about. I said “a blade”. While one of the officers held my arms, another one asked me where it was, and when I told him it was in my shoe, he pulled my shoe off to get it. He wouldn’t let me get it myself. I heard one of the other officers standing father back saying that I was okay, that they could let me get it, but nobody really listened to him. They asked me what hospital I wanted to go to, and then they took me to the lake.

The Hospital (4th out of 21)

When was in the ER my parents showed up. I had to have somebody call them because otherwise they would have no idea where I was, as no one in the school knew. I didn’t really want them to visit me, because I felt that they’d be angry, but my dad demanded and they finally let them in to see me, but one at a time.

They didn’t have a bed available in the Tau Center across the street, or even in the hospital in Lafayette. So they sent me to New Orleans, an hour and a half drive. It was almost midnight by the time I got there. I was so tired. All the transport driver did was drive and talk on his cell phone. I managed to get a little sleep in the car (set up like the inside of a police car, with a metal and plastic divider between the driver and the passenger).

While I was in the hospital, I still felt bad. I cried a lot, often crying myself to sleep. I fought self-harm, mainly because there were a lot of consequences for doing it in the hospital. I still felt so much emotional pain. Part of their program was relaxation with music, but it made me numb, and I felt nothing. My parents communicated a lot with the doctors, and the guidance counselor with both the hospital and my parents. I had one family meeting over the phone, and it went terrible. I started yelling at my parents about them not letting me take medicine, and taking me off my medication without telling me, (very gradually, it was safe, but still…) the doctors, or anyone, and whether or not they would let me go back to school. I never did get that answer.

After exactly one week, the doctor discharged me. I feel my parents had managed to convince him that I didn’t need to be in a psych hospital, and I still wasn’t on any medication. The night I got out, my sister was very mean to me, but I applied what I learned in the hospital, and did my best to let it go, and not say anything. It made me mad though, when my parents didn’t even correct her. That night was a Monday.

More School

My mom woke me up early Tuesday morning, and told me to get dressed – I was going to school. I was actually excited, because I knew that the people that I knew would want to know what happened and when, they asked, it would assure me that there really were people that cared about me. I thought everything was going to be okay. I told Ms. Olsen what happened first thing. She said that I seem happier. “I just hope it stays that way”, I said. “I think it will”, she answered. Dr. Martina, 1st hr. welcomed me back, and so did the people that sat next to me. I told my friend what happened, and she asked me if I felt better, and I said yes. I went to English, and literally took rapid notes the entire class. The class had gotten into groups to create power point presentations on an assigned topic. I told Ms. Johnson what happened, and she said that she would excuse me from the assignment, and give me another day or so to study for the test that I missed.

I went to science with Ms. Smith for 4th hr. She told me that I had to turn in the work book pages that were due in two days, and that I had to make up the test. She apparently thought I had been sick while I was gone, because she said that I knew about the assignments, and that I should have started on them. I told her that when I was out, I couldn’t work on anything. She asked why, and I told her that I was in a psych hospital. She decided to excuse me from the test, and that I could make up the other assignments, but the workbook still had to be turned in on the due date. For the rest of the class, I copied the notes that I missed from a classmate.

When I got to lunch, I found my friend that I have PE with. (not in the same class) She also cut, and was suicidal. (I later stopped her and got her in the hospital without even having contact with her) I told her what happened. She gave me a hug. I saw Mr. Harrison, my art teacher, during lunch, and he asked if I was going to be in class Wednesday, and I said yes.

After lunch, I went to PE. I told my three friends, simultaneously, what happened. (All three have similar problems – self injury, and suicidal feelings) I also talked to the ICare lady. She was surprised that I was in the hospital. I was surprised at my fitness level. Although I had done nothing but sit for the past week, I was able to run a complete quarter mile.

Then there was math. 7th hr. I borrowed someone’s phone to check my email, as my parents had taken my iphone (without a plan) away, because I had used an app, and the wifi, to call the suicide hotline. I told Mr. Lecher, my math teacher, what happened in a couple short sentences. I apologized for not coming in and finishing my test (I never did finish it). Anyway, I was allowed to take my time to catch up on the homework. Dr. Martina let me take home a class book to catch up on my assignments.

After school I took the bus home. I thought about all the homework that I had to do, and wondered if I would have to pull an all-nighter.

Losing Everything

When I got home, I started on my homework. My dad got home about an hour later. My parents called me into their bedroom. That’s where they told me that they were pulling me out, taking my riding lessons away, and that they weren’t going to take me to my therapist anymore. I was devastated, but I didn’t show it, or at least not right away. I thought of things to say to try to get them to change their minds. They brought out the letter that I had written them back in April, after they said that they were going to pull me out when they found out that I had tried to hang myself in the bathroom at school. In the letter, I begged them to give me one more chance, and that I wouldn’t cut, or even tell anyone that I was suicidal, (I honestly thought that that wouldn’t happen again) that they could pull me out and have me take the GED, as well as take my riding lessons away permanently. They said they were just following what I myself had written. I begged them to let me go to school just one more week, then I begged them for just a day.(I was thinking that if I was able to go just one more day, I could make it to the bridge) I hadn’t yet started crying. I guess that it hadn’t really started to sink in at that point. I pleaded with my parents to give me another chance, that I was different now. “Can’t you see that I’ve changed?” I asked. “I mean, I’m talking to you, and I’m listening to you, and you’re listening to me, and no one’s yelling.” “I have to admit, it is a little different”, my dad said. “I expected there to be a lot of yelling.”

Our conversation went on for a little while longer, and I soon discovered that my parents wouldn’t budge. That’s when I started crying. It didn’t matter what I said, or how I said it, nothing would change their minds. Then I just started begging them to let me say good bye to Ms. Olsen and Mr. Harrison. They said that they didn’t know, and that I couldn’t just walk around the school saying goodbye to everyone. I knew that, but Ms. Olsen and Mr. Harrison were like the two most important people in my life, and they meant the most to me. So I just started begging my parents to let me say good bye to them, because if I couldn’t have anything else, I at least wanted to say good-bye to those two people. All my mom could say, was “we’ll see”. They told me that they had an appointment the next day at school, with the guidance counselor, so I could clean out my locker, and turn in my textbooks. I literally couldn’t stop crying. Just a couple hours earlier, I had been a little happy, thinking that everything was going to be okay, but now my whole world was literally falling apart, everything and everyone I knew being taken away. I felt like I had nothing. And I really did. I asked what time the appointment was, and they told me. I stopped crying for a minute, as I realized that the time was during MY art class and Ms. Olsen’s off hour.

I cried myself to sleep that night. I never really did stop crying. If I allowed my thoughts to stray ever so slightly, I started crying again. Everything that I thought of made me cry. There was no escaping the emotional torment. I couldn’t think about anything. Everything reminded me of something I lost. Spanish made me think of Ms. Olsen. Art made me think of Mr. Harrison. Books made me think of school. Everything hurt. I willingly went to bed that night just to escape the pain for a little while.

When I woke the next morning, I sensed that something was wrong. My eyelids felt swollen, and then all the events from yesterday came rushing back, and they hit me like I brick wall. I started crying again. I managed to stop for a little while, but I started again on the way to the school.

Saying Good-Bye

I went told Ms. Meeks that I wanted to say good-bye to Ms. Olsen, and Mr. Harrison. She said that she’d see what she could do. I went up with Ms. Meeks to the third floor, where I cleaned out my locker, clipping my diary notebook into one of my binders, knowing that if my parents found it, they would read it. Ms. Olsen was in the break room getting coffee, or something. Ms. Meeks walked in with me, and told her that I wanted to tell her something, and that she’d be right outside the door. Ms. Olsen turned around to face me, her face full of concern, the same way it was when she stopped me on the 6th. I burst into tears. She hugged me, and I told her “Mis padres me dijeron anoche que ya no puedo asistir a esta escuela.”, my sobs almost choked my words.”I don’t want to leave you.” (Translated, it means :My parents told me last night that I couldn’t attend this school anymore.) She talked to me with the guidance counselor for a couple minutes, saying that I seemed so happy yesterday and trying to get me to look on the positive side – I could get a job, and maybe go to a horse college that I’d been dreaming about sooner. Then she hugged me again, and I left her for the last time.

From there, we went to Mr. Harrison. He came outside the door. He was surprised that I was leaving. He hugged me, and said “Aww, little buddy”. He said that he would miss me. I asked him if I could take home the picture (the bridge) that I was working on and finish it at home. We couldn’t find it at first, but a little later, he had someone bring it down to the office. (I did finish it, and it’s in a frame.)

When I got home, things didn’t get any better. I missed Ms. Olsen, and the school terribly. My parents watched me all the time, and it just made things worse. I became enrolled in the Christa McAuliffe Adult Learning Center, to start the process of taking the GED. I started to look for work, but couldn’t find a job. I still felt depressed. I still wanted to cry every day, if not more so because of the pain of losing everything. I longed to cut, but I had to wait. I knew I still needed help, but I didn’t know how to get it. I wanted to die more than anything, but I couldn’t, because I didn’t have anything available that would work. The bridge was too far from our house, the medicine cabinet was locked, there were no ropes or anything available, and someone was always watching me, my parents never let me stay home by myself.

The Struggle Continues

Over time, I gradually gained a tiny bit of trust. I started emailing someone from crisis chat, and telling her what was going on. I still had absolutely no means to escape, but it had gotten to the point where when I got ready for bed, my mom would allow me to stay in the bathroom for about 10 minutes without knocking on the door. That’s when I started cutting. Again. I didn’t know what else to do. I recognized that I really didn’t want to cut, but it was the only thing I had that would take the pain away, so I did it. I didn’t have a therapist to talk to, and I couldn’t talk to anyone else without my parents knowing everything. I did have one person, but I only got to see her once a week, and if my parents found out that I was talking to her, I was sure they wouldn’t let me go with her anymore.

I started cutting my thigh again. Row 3. Not really bad, because if I cut any worse, I wouldn’t have enough time to stop the bleeding before my mom decided to check on me. But it was enough to take some of the pain away. I would read and sleep all the time, because when I was reading, I was in the book, and when I was sleeping, I wasn’t in emotional pain. I remember frequently waking in my room, and wishing with all my heart that I could just jump into my drawing of the bridge. I had to be very careful with the cutting. Not only did I have to watch the number, and severity of the cuts, but I had to be careful that I didn’t do it every day, or my mom would get suspicious. I had to carefully wrap the used Band-Aid papers in tissue, and poke them down in the trash can. The same went for the used bandages. I also had to get the blade out of the hiding place, put it in my pocket, along with the Band-Aid, and it had to be completely flat, without crinkling.

One time, I forget to wrap the used Band-Aids in tissue, and throw them away. I left them sitting out. Fortunately, I realized it in time, and was able to take care of them before my mom saw them.

I knew I still needed help. So I started getting on my email account, and communicating with my doctor that I had previously, as well as with someone from the Baton Rouge Crisis Center. I kept telling Crisis what was going on, and how I continued to feel. She was concerned both about my cuts, and whether or not I was going to make another attempt at suicide. Finally, after telling them about my parents pulling me out of school, not letting me take medication (I guess they thought that was best), not letting me go to the doctor, and taking my riding lessons away, Crisis decided that they should make a report to the social workers.

Things Escalate

One Monday, a couple weeks later, the DCFS came to my house.. They talked to my parents. They didn’t say much to me. I didn’t like the information that I felt they got from my parents. I felt she got the idea that I was making everything up, and I was doing everything to get attention, and I didn’t really have plans to jump off the bridge back in September, that I just wanted to go to the hospital. They were basing their argument on the fact that a couple doctors said that I didn’t really need to be in a psych hospital, and that they thought that I wanted attention. So my parents told them that, and that they think when I tell other people it feeds my problem for more attention. It wasn’t true! I didn’t just want attention. I wanted to feel better. My parents told her that they pulled me out of school to protect the other kids there. I feet like they down played everything and made it seem like nothing was wrong.

After she left, my dad was saying that I had disgraced him, and embarrassed him, and that he would never forget what I did to him. Then he said that he wanted to take the family to Yosemite, and that I didn’t deserve to go, and that he didn’t want to take me. He yelled “Shame, shame on you” to me again. I was crying. (I know now that he was just angry and didn’t understand and didn’t know what to do) They said that they wanted to help me. I started yelling at him, “You say you want to help me, but you say things like that? How do you think that makes me feel? How would you like it if someone said that to you? Don’t you think it makes me hurt worse that I already am?” He seemed to calm down a little after that.

Later that night, my mom walked in on me in the bathroom, and told me she was going to do a skin check. I started yelling no at her. She got mad, and told me to be quiet by “tapping my mouth” except she hit my nose, and it hurt. I got mad at her for that, and asked why she did that. I did to her what I thought was exactly what she did to me, and she got madder, and slapped me across the face. I screamed louder. She got mad about that, and hit me across my behind as hard as she could, or that’s how it appeared in the mirror. She saw my fresh scars, and the two cuts that still had scabs on them. She was mad about that. She wanted to know why. But I couldn’t tell her.

I was so upset, I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t cut, and I couldn’t kill myself, so I talked out my feelings to myself in Spanish. I wanted to die so bad, I kept saying, “I have to get out of here, I can’t take this anymore” I still wanted to do something, but what?

My parents asked me if I wanted to stay with them, or if I wanted to go to foster care, and I said stay with them, but the truth is that I didn’t care. I saw no hope for the future.

I wanted out so bad. I felt there was nothing anyone can do. I felt suicide was the only solution, if I only could have found a way to do it.

Desperation

Later on, I got my mom to take me to the stable to help out with the therapeutic riding program there. One of my friends that rode the bus with me, graduated the year before, and was now working as an instructor at the stable. She knew about what was going on. I went there once, and I felt really horrible. The horses were a living reminder of what I had lost, and how much I longed to sit atop a horse again. It made me feel even more depressed, even though I still loved the horses with all my heart. I was talking to my friend, and I started crying. She hugged me, and told me to hug a horse. I did. I confessed to her, that I was thinking about leaving the stable to walk down the levee, and she said, “oh no you don’t”. She wouldn’t let me go anywhere. The next time I went to the stable, a similar thing happened. But this time, I told her I wanted to go, and when she said no, I started crying, and walked away. “Get back over here!” She said. “Where are you going?” “I’m not going anywhere.” I said. And I didn’t. I just walked over to where I was immersed in the dark of the night, and just sat down and cried. She walked over to me, and asked what was wrong. I just told her how I felt, what was going through my head. I said that I would call a friend if I had a phone, but I didn’t. She handed me hers. I talked to my friend through the rest of the therapeutic riding session, and was finally able to stop crying by the time my mom came to pick me up.

The next time, the same thing happened; only worse .My mom hadn’t wanted to take me, so I had gotten to the stable late. The lesson was already under way, and I wasn’t needed right away. It was already late; almost too late to make it to the bridge before my mom arrived to pick me up. I was almost to the point where I didn’t care how late it was. I told my friend at the stable. She told me no. I just walked away. I wanted to be by myself. I didn’t want to be around anyone. My friend let me borrow her phone to call a friend, but she was sick, and I didn’t want to burden her with how horrible I felt. I talked to her a minute before we hung up. She wanted me to call her back when I got home, so she would know that I was okay. (I was with her earlier, and she knew I wanted to jump off the bridge that day.) I went to the back to the barns, where very few people ever go, and it was almost pitch black. I was just sitting there, on nothing more than a metal bar, in the dark with my face in my hands, almost ready to start for the bridge, even though I knew I wouldn’t make it there in time (my mom would be at the stable before I was at the bridge). Just as I was about to leave, I could just make out of the darkness a silhouette of someone approaching.

“Is everything okay?” the person said.

“Are you a police officer, I asked?”

“Yes.” “Is everything okay?”

“Not really.”

“Anything I can do?”

I didn’t move, but kept staring at the ground.

“Well what’s going on? Tell me.”

“I want to walk down the Levee.”

“What’s down the levee?” I’m thinking, “I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want anyone to stop me. I just want to go.”

“I want to go to the bridge,” I said.

“Why do you want to go there” he asks me. “What?! He doesn’t get it?” I’m thinking. I don’t want to tell him. I can’t tell him.

I pause and look away.

“You can tell me” he says gently.

I pinched my arm, “I want to go there to jump off” I said, the words coming out in a rush.

“You’re feeling that way right now?” he asked.

I nodded.

“What has you feeling so bad that you want to die?”

“Everything” I said, wiping away tears with the back of my hand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked his tone gentle and concerned.

Again I didn’t move.

“Come on and we can sit on my tailgate and talk.”

I got up and followed him. It was another several minutes before I finally opened up, and the whole story came rushing out.

He told me that when someone tells him that they want to die, that by law he has to contact someone.

I nodded, feeling numb and unreal. There was a tiny bit of anger there too. Anger that I was on my way to the hospital, and that once again, someone had stopped me. I really feel that if he hadn’t come when he did, I would have gone. He called EMS, and stayed with me and talked to me until they came.

The ambulance pulled up silently. The only person (at that time) that knew they were coming was my friend.

Anyway, after a short time (relatively) in the ER, I ended up at the TAU Center across from OLOL. My parents showed up when I was still in the ER after they found out from BREC where I was, but they weren’t allowed to see me.

I was in the hospital for 16 days, getting out on the 19 of December. It was a hard time for me. At first, my parents refused to put me on medicine, but a week later, they decided to let me try it. Even in the hospital, I would cry a lot, and I wanted to die so bad that I started looking around the room for everything, but, of course, I couldn’t find anything. I kept a journal when I was in the hospital, writing it in Spanish, so no one could read it. I vowed to myself that I would kill myself when I got home.

Things Change

Toward the end of my stay, I started to feel a little bit better. The medicine was working! When I got out, they started me on a second medicine. It knocked me out at first, but it went away after a few days.

After a while, I felt really good. I felt happy. I had more energy, and I felt like doing more things. I started to go to therapy, and it proved to be helpful. I’m starting to realize that Ms. Olsen was right. People DO care about me. Life is beautiful, and I love it!

Then, I finally got a job at the end of January. I worked at a Mexican version of Subway. It was hard at first; because there was a lot that I had to remember, but once I got it, it was kind of fun. Plus, I got money. I’ve paid off a lot of my hospital bills. It’s also allowed me to buy an iPod, and a new computer. It pays for my riding lessons that I finally got back in April. (Only every other week right now)

I started feeling so much better! I felt I was a new person. I’ll try to describe this as best I can. It’s as if depression had blinded me to reality. It’s as if any attempts to think positively, and stop telling myself all those negative things were blocked; like positive thoughts couldn’t get through. Constantly thinking about suicide became the norm. So did cutting, and hiding everything. I was living in constant fear. I didn’t realize what was happening until the depression lifted with the medication. I didn’t know what it felt like not to feel sad. I didn’t know what normal was. Now, positive thoughts are no longer blocked by depression. I no longer felt that I am a burden to others. I had hope. I was overflowing with hope. For the first time ever, my WHOLE heart turned its back on death, and chose life. I no longer sat in a dark corner and thought about how much I want to escape the endless pain, and die. I wish I hadn’t had to go as far as I did, but I was glad, because I finally got what I needed to feel better. I guess the important thing was that I never gave up trying to get what I knew I needed.

I was ready for anything! I was going to pay off my hospital bills, get a job, by a computer, an iPod, and iPad, a new camera, get my riding lessons back, write a book on my life, buy a bunch of books on horse training, go to the equestrian school out of state, and learn a third language, while still working on the second. Everything. All at once. And in my head it was all possible. Everything I wanted to do I could. I was perfect. Amazing. A Pro, and could accomplish whatever I wanted.

And I thought this was the end…..it was only the beginning. It was, however, part of a major turning point, and it didn’t necessarily start off seeming to be one.