I remember that night. It is very vivid in my mind. The rest of that week, however, is just bits and pieces.
It was a Tuesday in November, and my mom was taking me home from my weekly counseling session. The car ride home was normal. My mom and I were talking-about my school day, about her day at work, nothing seemed wrong. I didn't know anything was wrong...and neither did my mom.
When we finally reached home, I went to get my backpack and continued my homework from that day. My mom went into the kitchen. My sister, Charlie, who had been home alone that night came downstairs with a piece of paper in her hand, folded up.
She looked scared. She didn't look at me when she passed me, just the floor. She went into the kitchen. I peered around the corner, and I saw that Charlie had shown my mom the paper. My mom gasped, and almost started to cry, but she held her tears back. Immediately, she sprang into action.
She stood up, got her purse, and told my brother's girlfriend (my brother wasn't home) that they were going to the hospital. My sister had drunken half a bottle of Motrin. She had tried to kill herself.
After hearing this, I ran up to my room and started to cry. I called my boyfriend, but he could barely understand me. It took all the strength I could muster up, but I finally stopped crying and told him what had happen. He couldn't say at anything.
I was in my bed crying for at least an hour. My eyes were red and swollen, my nose would not stop running, and I had run out of tears. I went downstairs for some dinner, but I couldn't eat. My other brother (who was home) asked if I wanted him to call my youth pastor. I said yes.
About five minutes later, somebody knocked on the door. I was expecting it to be my pastor, Mr. Dennis, but it was my neighbor, Mrs. Novey. We hugged. We didn't stop hugging until Mr. Dennis arrived, about twenty minutes later. He was trying to get me to tell him how I felt, but it was a good ten minutes until I said "Every negative word there is.". I couldn't say any more.
Another forty-five minutes later, my aunt arrived and Mr. Dennis left. We snuggled on the couch. Finally, no matter how sad I was, I couldn't stay up any longer. I was too tired, so I went to bed.
My sister and I shared a room. We still do. We have both experienced sleeping in the room by ourselves, but that night it was different. It was creepy and unsettling, so I went to sleep in my mom's bed. I had to. I loved my sister way to much to sleep in our room when she was in the hospital; when she could have died. When she wanted to die.