By Kimberly Zapata
The day began like any other: with the pungent smell of cigarettes and coffee, with the distant sound of footsteps and muffled conversation, and with the rising of the sun.
An early “Wait, it isn’t even 6 o’clock yet. Why is it bright out?” rising of the sun.
Of course, I didn’t see the sun rise, because in my room, the curtains were still drawn. The lights were still off, and I was still buried beneath my sheets and my blanket. My head (and eyes) were shielded by a cheap Target pillow, but that is hardly the point. The point is that it was a regular day. A typical day.
It was just another beautiful summer morning.
But it was also to be my last day, or so I thought. Or so I had decided. Because on that day, the last day of my junior year of high school, I’d had enough.
I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe either, and I wanted to die. At 17, I genuinely wanted to die. And so I wrote a note, made a plan, and decided how I would end my life.
Pills, I thought. I’ll take lots and lots of pills. It seemed like the easiest, most logical way.
Of course, I know what you are thinking right now: Why? Why would a child want to take their own life?
And the truth is, I don’t know. Even now, 17 years later, I don’t have an answer for that. What I do know — thanks to my memory and several dozen shitty poems — is that I was struggling. I was suffering, and I was hurting. Physically, emotionally, and mentally, I was a wreck.