I was in the 7th grade the first time I tried to kill myself.
It was a feeble attempt, for sure; I remember the silent sobs wracking my still-developing body, awkward limbs flailing under tangled sheets and bedspread as I pressed my face into my pillow, hard, willing my breathing to stop.
This soon became a nightly pursuit — tossing, turning, weeping and gasping for breath. The most frustrating part was that I didn’t really understand why I felt this way. I had just moved schools and it was taking me a while to adjust, but even I knew that that wasn’t the extent of the problem, that something deeper was happening that I couldn’t comprehend, slowly drilling holes into my mental constitution. As the nights went by, it became less about the challenge of whether or not I could do it and more about the internal…
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