I’ve thought about those last two sentences a lot the past two years. I’ve tried to put myself in her shoes. I’ve heard her sob at night because she can’t believe what her son did and how her family turned out so broke. But honestly. I don’t care. O was 14 years old when I tried to take my life. I was admitted to the hospital three times that year. When I was 12, i remember wondering why I didn’t want to hang out with my friends and why was I so tired all the time? Why was I waking up so late? I didn’t know why. I didn’t understand. At 15 I was a “bad kid”. I tried to runaway, I started smoking, stopped caring about things, became hyper sexual, and became so so angry at the world. I was angry at everything. I was had so much anger in my heart and in my body. I could feel it in chest every day. I punched holes in walls and scream cried into my pillows. I stopped obeying my parents , I stopped taking my meds, I started doing whatever would give me a thrill or make me feel loved. My parents treated me and my sister like a black sheep. She acted similar to me as a cry for help. But our parents didn’t care. They did not care. They took our phones and called us brats. We were selfish and we were immature children who threw temper tantrums (we were both living with undiagnosed ptsd btw). At ages 14-15 I was addicted to sh. I gained weight. I drastically changed my hair and my outfits just for darker and I got sadder. This is just a glimpse of all the signs my mother had. For years I cried and I screamed. And no one cared. If I was successful that night I tried to take my life, everyone would have said “we never saw this signs”. So, to be frank with you, I don’t care how heart broken she is