When I was in sixth grade, I tried to commit suicide. It started with an argument with my mother. It was your everyday short argument. I did something wrong and she was telling me off. We were in the middle of a heated conversation, I was angry and Mom was calm and collected as usual. Tears streaming down my face, I yelled at her, said a few curse words, and insulted her cooking.

She took a deep breath (in a way that only infuriated the awesome me further) and got to her feet. “It seems we need some time to cool down.” she said, before walking out of the room. She closed the door behind her and walked away.

I swore a few more times, punched a few pillows, overturned a table, and then it hit me. The most disturbing and wicked idea that could be cooked up in a sixth grader’s mind.

‘What if I wasn’t alive? I would love to look down from heaven and watch her cry. She’d think it was all her fault, and she would live with that until the day she died.’

I, of course, was being undoubtedly selfish. I didn’t think about how other people would feel if I died. I only felt about the sweet revenge and torment that I could inflict on my mother with my passing.

I thought about it, pondering it for a few seconds. It seemed like a good deal. I could make people sad while I went and spent the rest of eternity in everlasting bliss and happiness. I got to my feel and quietly walked into my mother’s bathroom. Kneeling by the sink, I opened the small cabinet under it and pulled out the bottle of meds. I looked at all the different choices. Ibuprofen, Advil, Aspirin, Excedrin, Children’s Benadryl….

I hated swallowing pills, and that preference saved my life.

I took the Benadryl, drinking half the bottle before I sat back on the bed, waiting for Mom to come back in. I felt something, guilt perhaps? I had to tell her. Mom came back in, cooled off and ready to resume our conversation argument when I suddenly blurted out, “I tried to kill myself.”

I had never seen her so scared. Her face paled. “What did you take?” she asked, trying to keep her composure. After all, a mother screaming and running around with her arms flailing like a bunch of dead snakes is never the best way to handle a situation.

“Benadryl.”

Thankfully, we only had Children’s Benadryl, so she knew what I was talking about.

“How much?”

“Half a bottle.”

She took a deep breath and picked up her phone. She dialled 911 and called poison control (Which also happened to be the fire department).

They took me to the Emergency Room, where I was admitted and had my blood drawn.

I was safe, thank goodness, but my stomach still hurt from the Benadryl. I am happy to say that I did not throw up.

The hospital demanded that I should be admitted into UBH (University of Behavioral Health) for seven to ten days. I was so frightened. I had never been in a institution before, and I’d never slept away without my parents. I didn’t even have experience with sleepovers. How was I going to manage?

The days at UBH were some of the worse. The older kids picked on me. They made fun of my ethnicity, age, and even my drawings, saying that they looked like trash. They looked down on me like I was nothing. But I eventually got used to it. I learned that suicide is the coward’s way of getting out of the trials and tests of time.

I would say that commiting suicide is the worst way to die, sans torture, slicing and dicing, 9/11, the electric chair, and… You get the idea. It’s pretty bad. It’s one of the most selfish acts of mankind. They (suicide victims) don’t think about the impact they have on their families and friends. And if they do, what about the future they could have? The children and grandchildren they could have? The legacy they could leave behind. I speak about this subject because I tried, and I am thankful that I failed. Don’t fall victim to the temptation of suicide. If you consider it for a minute, even a single moment, get help. Don’t do what I did. Don’t make the same mistakes that I made. Don’t commit suicide.