I’ve complemented suicide since I was 7-years-old, it’s tragic and horrific knowing children experience such thoughts so young. I come from a family where discipline means a visit to a room with the doors closed and anything at hand. It meant having to contain my tears and cries or the pain would just get worse. At 13 I got bullied for being Hispanic, it was the first time I realized skin color had a meaning. I was stereotyped as a Mexican whose dad left and the only thing I’ve ever accomplished was hoping the border. My mother at that time would make my life at home no better, and as soon as she saw my cuts and scars, therapy was where she sent me. I didn’t last long there, specifically because mom would make fun of me for being depressed and telling my problems weren’t real. She wanted to send me back to my country where my dad lives, but he did not want me and was forced to keep me. I am 17 now and I’m proud to admit I’ve survived so many tormented nights, where tears would continuously flow. Sadly, though, I feel depressed as ever, it’s like a sharp pain that drags from your heart to your hands and throughout your body and so on. Not to mention how you have to hold the tears and sobs so no one will hear. It hurts. The only thing keeping me away from a rope and ladder is my boyfriend but even then it makes me feel most lonely since he lives 400 miles away and we can’t see each other often.