My summer nights were spent iat my window, my side window to be exact, because it was right above my bed. I'd leave the storm window wide open with the screen down. I'd rest my head on my arms on the sill. It was just wide enough for my arms to fit comfortably. The rest of me would lay across my bed - sometimes with a light blanket.

The world (or at least my neighborhood) was asleep. I was never at the window earlier than two o'clock in the morning. That's when reality hit and when there was no one to talk to. I was never depressed during the day. Well, not to the extreme of how I felt at night.

I'd lie at my window and cry. I never made a sound so no one ever heard me. It would only have been my parents anyway, and those who make you cry have no desire to comfort those tears. I had many reasons for crying. They didn't seem to be big problems compared to someone with no shelter or food, but they were my problems which were making me miserable. My mom was the type to say "Do as I say, not as I do." She yelled at me for everything I did and then turned around and did it herself. Sure there are other problems, but she came to mind first.

I'd watch the still houses and listen to the night birds. It was an added effect when the wind blew and the leaves rustled. And I'd watch the stars if it weren't cloudy. I've seen many things at my window. I've watched drug deals, car accidents, motorcycle accidents, fights and possibly a murder.

Those were the times when suicide became a thought, an idea, and finally an action. I can't even recall exactly how it came to be in my mind. It was more than a spur of the moment thing. At first I thought of jumping out the window, but I'd have hurt myself.

The voices came at my window. Sometimes I'd listen to them. Other times I'd try to make them go away. They were annoying, considering I couldn't tell what they were saying. I've told my parents but they dismissed it. Still crazy? Maybe.

I can't figure out why I got so depressed and why I thought hurting myself was a quick way to help me feel stronger. I've had a perfectly happy childhood. I've had the regular unhappy moments every other kid has, so why did I turn out this way? I have nightmares I couldn't possibly explain. Why me?

I've been taken for a roller coaster ride. Maybe it's a phase and it'll pass. Suicide is no longer a way out for me because it's a way out forever and problems don't last forever. I also know what many of you are thinking. You pass right by this article with just a skim and wonder what kind of kook I really am. Then why am I writing this, you ask? To show you that suicide attempts and the ones who succeed are not just numbers, they're people with feelings that hurt and they're just crying out for help. Believe me, I've been there. n