I Survived

April 18th was one of the worst nights of my life.
It was the night I learned what friendship isn’t.
Not the people who told me to stay quiet and not make waves.
Not the ones who said I exaggerated my pain.
Not the ones who called me too sensitive.
And definitely not the one whose actions sparked all those conversations in the first place.
That night showed me who would stand beside me — and who never truly had.

November 8th was one of the worst days of my life.
It was the day I couldn’t see a way forward.
The day I sat alone with a bottle beside me, convinced there were no other options left.
I remember taking one pill, then two more, tears blurring everything.
I remember the panic, the heartbreak, the desperate wish for the pain to stop.

I remember counting 37 Tylenol 3s.
I remember the moment I realized how far I had gone.

And then something shifted.
I thought of my family — the people who had no idea how much I was hurting.
I thought of who would find me.
I thought of my little sister, who deserved a version of me that was still here.
That thought pulled me back toward life.

I fought to undo what I had done.
I drifted in and out, terrified, trying to cling to consciousness, trying to stay alive.
It was messy and frightening and nothing like the escape I imagined in that moment of despair.

But I survived.
I survived April 18th.
I survived November 8th.
Some might call it a cry for help — and maybe it would have been, if I had told anyone.
But this is me telling it now.
This is me choosing to speak instead of staying silent.