It wasn’t all about a boy, but I remember being pretty worked up over him. He was breaking up with me and I just couldn’t take it. There was just too much stress. It was the weekend before graduation and he was breaking up with me…or “just a break” as he called it. So I said what I felt in times like these. “I want to die.”

I had wanted to die for years prior to saying this out loud. I just thought it was a normal feeling, just like happiness or anger. Being suicidal was normal for me. Senior year was just concreting these feelings for me. When I told my boyfriend that I was suicidal it wasn’t a threat to make him stay. I had just had enough of keeping it bottled in and he was the person on the phone. I had to say it, I was so overwhelmed. I didn’t feel that way because he was breaking up with me. I said it because I was tired of living. I couldn’t take any more punches from life. Between graduation and a breakup, leaving for school in a few months, and my friends growing more and more distant I couldn’t take it. I would have said it to a stranger if they had been the closest person to me.

But the closest person wasn’t a stranger. The closest person was an eighteen year old boy my parents called “Man Child.” The closest person was a boy who tried all of prom night to get laid and who wouldn’t put his napkin in his lap at Olive Garden. He was the person on the other line and his response was hanging up. I was angry with him. He left me in my time of need. I just want to die! I would think to myself. But the worst had yet to come.

When Man Child hung the phone up on me he called my parents and told them I was suicidal. I was livid when they confronted me. I wanted to call him back. “NO,” I would yell. “I’m breaking up with you!” Yeah, that would have been good. Except, after I told him I was suicidal we would never talk again. I would text him years later one bored, lonely, drunk night and we would be friendly, but I would remember that my parents called him Man Child and I wouldn’t bring myself to rekindle that flame.

My parents remained calm after talking to him on the phone. They just wanted to know the truth; was I really suicidal? I told them the truth, because I didn’t know any better. I was, very, and it was driving me crazy. Before I knew it we were in the car on our way to the hospital. I told them I refused to go inside, they couldn’t make me. They could make me though, and they dragged me kicking and screaming into the hospital.

My mom asked to stay with me. I was angry and aggressive, but I think she knew deep down I was just frightened. I was terrified; I thought these dark thoughts were normal. I didn’t think something was wrong with me. My mother was an over reactor, there was no way there was something wrong with me. This had to be just another freak out of hers, something my father and I could laugh on later.

When the doctor came in (after an hour of me screaming bloody murder and throwing everything I could get my hands on) I explained everything. I was so sure he would understand that there was noting wrong with me; in fact he would probably laugh on about my dramatic mother. Unfortunately for me at the time the doctor and my mother happened to be on the same page. He agreed to hold me overnight. My mother asked to stay with me and he agreed, bringing a cot for her to sleep on.

I must have spent half the night berating my mother. I told her I hated her. I told her I would never come back after I graduated. I told her I would never speak to her again. I told her everything I could that would upset her, and called her every name in the book. I was so unbelievably mad at my mother for listening (for once) to something Man Child had to say.

What I was too afraid to say was how much I really do love my mother. I was too afraid to tell her that I was scared, and didn’t know what was wrong. I wanted to tell her all my dark thoughts that night, I wanted to come clean about the double life I was living. Instead I attacked my innocent mother.  She didn’t reply back, aside from the occasional, “I love you,” which only made me angrier; mostly angry for being so angry at her.

The next morning I was discharged. I wasn’t allowed access to the phone, mostly as protection for Man Child. Hell, if I could lay into my mother the way I did, I could only imagine what I would of said to an ex. We didn’t really talk about what happened, only about what would happen. I would finish the school year and before college I would start therapy again. I agreed after a long argument. I was too tired to argue with them, I was too angry to continue on. I would only get myself in more trouble if I picked a fight that weekend.

I remember the next day going to school and trying to explain to my friends what had just happened, but nobody seemed to care. Nobody asked questions, or told me they loved me. It was brushed off quickly. It was my mother I would turn to that night when I was alone and afraid. And it would be my mother I would turn to after every episode after.

I was so upset with my parents that night (especially my mother) for taking me to the hospital, but looking back years later I am so grateful. What nobody knew was I had picked a date to end my life. I was starting to plan my death. If it wasn’t for Man Child reporting me, my father driving me to the hospital, and my poor mother tolerating my abuse, I might not have made it to my twenties. To them it may have just been a really, really bad night. But to me, their love was enough to save me that  one time.