I'd heard countless stories on the news about how kids my age had tragically taken their own lives. Nobody had ever noticed the warning signs they said, the parents thought that their sweet daughter was perfect, that she had no problems, when in reality she had more problems than most. I never understood why no one had ever noticed the signs or, if someone did, why they hadn't cared enough to tell someone. I always thought that if I felt this way my family would notice; my friends would tell someone, my teachers would be worried about a change in my behavior and say something. It turns out I was wrong because halfway through my freshman year I reached that point, I tried a very permanent solution to a short term problem.

“I hate you!”

“You don't deserve love!”

“Get out!”

Years of pain hadn't ended like I had hoped. It hadn't ended with a reconciliation, it had ended with a soul-crushing pain and almost more heartbreak than I could bear forbidden from being in my house and branded a horrible daughter. My suspicions had been proven correct, and despite my certainty that my mother really did hate me, it came as a cold hard blow to my heart. Eventually, she apologized but she hadn't meant it - I could tell by the looks she gave me, the way she sounded angry at even the mention of my name. From then on, all of my time was spent in my room; dark and cold as I preferred it - the only light in the room coming from a crappy, dim desk lamp that had once belonged to my great-grandmother. I spent my time writing, writing and thinking; thinking about my life, or lack thereof. I wrote everything I could think of, but mostly about how I no longer wished to live if it meant that the person that I once thought loved me the most, now hated me, I wrote about how it was too much to bear on my own. I needed help whether I realized it or not. Secrets weren't optional anymore they were necessary.

The depression had only gotten worse as the years passed, but my mother telling me that she hated me was the breaking point, and when I looked in the mirror I didn't see the happy go lucky girl I once was and still wanted to be. I saw a dark and bitter girl eyes devoid of the sparkle of young life who hated everything about herself, there had to be something wrong with me that made me so repulsive that not even my mother loved me, I just couldn't figure out what it was and nothing I did made a difference.

There was nothing I could do to stop the feeling of soul-crushing hurt and at times it made me feel even more alone than I already was. The descent to darkness was slow, so slow that people hardly even noticed. Isolation was normal for me even before my depression set in, I liked being alone, I wasn't popular at school so most days I was just left alone to my misery. I had become isolated from everything and everyone as much as I could and the only people who had started to notice where the people in my small group of friends. They where on high alert after they had coerced me and found out what had happened with my mother, but I didn't care because they didn't matter anymore, nothing did. They where just people now not friends, I didn't have friends, just people I had no other choice but to socialized with as I went through the motions of everyday life. Days passed and I became more and more desperate for a way out of the black hole that my life was becoming.

I eventually worked up the nerve to at least try to get out of the dark abyss of that was my mind, the dark abyss that had caused me to do things I never thought I would do, the abyss that had made me have to hurt myself just to feel. I got painkillers from my purse and told my family that I didn't feel well, they left me well enough alone whether or not I was sick but it was a necessary precaution I was like a leper on the best of days so being sick just made me a leper with the flu, even more abhorrent. I sat on my bed trying to force myself to take the pills and do what I desperately wanted to do. I wanted it more than I thought possible but I couldn't bring myself to do it and that was what made it hurt the most. The fact that I was too much of a coward only fueled what I did next. I texted Libby, or Liaby as I liked to call her hoping that maybe her words would give me courage for whatever happened, turns out they did, just not how I expected. We texted for a couple of minutes before I got tired of avoiding the problem. I told her not to bother texting anymore and then I went to take the pills. My phone rang. I should have known the minute I pushed send that my plans wouldn't succeed, it was Libby, I hadn't thought she would have time to reply before the deed was done but I answered anyway hoping she hadn't realized my intentions, “Layni you okay? Your text got me worried. Whats wrong?” I wasn't okay but I had to make her think I was. Tearfully I replied, “I'm, I'm fine. I can't talk to you now, don't call back.” She called back, of course- I don't know why I believed she wouldn't. I read the texts she sent me, “ANSWER!” “What's wrong?” “I'll call your mo
\m!”. This was the breaking point, my secret being exposed, and I finally replied- “Don't call my mom, I'll tell you.”

I broke when I heard her voice, the tears started coming and there was nothing I could do to stop them, crying silently I waited for her to ask me once again what was wrong because I couldn't bring myself to speak first. She finally spoke and I told her everything. I told her things I had never told anyone before. Looking back I'm glad I did. Secrets aren't good for the soul, they rip you apart and cause drastic actions, actions that can't be reversed. We talked for hours and as we talked I felt the enormous weight I had been carrying lessen. The pills lay forgotten on the floor. Her parting words gave me the strength to carry on, “We will help you just come to school tomorrow. I won't leave you, just promise that you will be here tomorrow.” I promised.

My friends already knew; Libby had contacted them and my phone hadn't stopped vibrating since I had sluggishly got out of bed that morning. Rachel who next to Libby knew the most about my problems didn't believe I wouldn't try again like the others, and maybe she was right. She wasn't as innocent as the rest, she knew that I might have meant what I said, but if I didn't get help it wouldn't matter. She took things into her own hands and told the counselor. I was furious at first but I realized that I would have done the same thing if I were in her position.

I spent a majority of that day in the counseling office. It wasn't fun and I sat there refusing to speak about anything of importance for a majority of the time but it brought things into perspective. I hadn't realized how much my decision would have hurt the ones that I loved, a lot more people cared than I realized. I'm not completely okay and I don't think I ever will be, I that was one of the darkest periods of my life and I couldn't walk away from it the same person I was before. I was changed, more insecure, I trusted less and I don't think that feeling will ever leave me, but I rarely feel as horrible as I did that night. Although I don't believe that the pain and animosity between me and my mother will ever vanish, to many things have been said that can't be taken back, but maybe eventually we can be in the same room as each other without shouting the whole time because despite what I say I can't bring myself to truly hate her the way she hates me. I learned a valuable lesson that day, I learned that I don't need to make life changing decisions for short term problems.