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was going on, I felt utterly hopeless, useless and worthless.
There was no purpose for me and nothing worth looking
forward to. No one was there to talk to me, comfort me. My
inspiration to live had drained out. The love I used to feel from
my family, friends, and school was depleted and replaced with
anger and resentment. I became very depressed. I felt like a
failure. I could not hold myself together.
Late one night, I decided it was time to end my suffering. I
sneaked downstairs and swallowed handfuls of pills, then
crawled back into bed and closed my eyes for what I thought
would be the last time. I did not bother to write a goodbye
letter, for I thought it pointless to write a note to people who
did not care. The next morning, I opened my eyes to find
myself still stuck in life. I sluggishly got myself up and
attempted to prepare for school, unable to formulate any
thoughts about the failed suicide attempt. My mom noticed
something was wrong and took me to the emergency room, an
experience I scarcely remember now. The doctors took me to
the intensive care unit and hooked me up to monitors; they
stuck an IV in me and gave me medications to keep my heart
beating—for I was in heart block, a medical condition referring