What would happen if I could be happy? Maybe I could. Maybe I could try again, and then I would be happy. Maybe I needed help. I needed help. I was going to get help.
I hid the noose back up in the attic, and climbed down. After wiping the tears off of my face, I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, and started to write.
Most of the letter was an apology for being such an awful daughter and sister, and ruining everything. I listed all of the things wrong with me, and that I needed help and needed to go to the hospital. I wrote that I didn’t want to speak. I started crying, as I made the hardest decision in my life.
I slid the paper under their door, and ran back to my room, bawling and hyperventilating. I grabbed a back pack, and threw some things in it, like clothes, bandaids, hair ties, etc. I sat on my bed, trying to control my crying, when I heard my parents’ door open. This was it. This was either going to be the end.
Or the beginning.