More than proud

I have to tell you this for you to understand that. When I was in High School I wanted to die. Correction, I wanted to kill myself. I was sick, but not in a way people could see. Mental illness was not something that was talked about back then. People saw me and saw a freak, a crazy chick. They didn't see that inside my head there were voices telling me how useless and worthless I was. They didn't hear the people inside mimicking the voices of the ones I loved, telling me that I should just kill myself and end all the suffering I was causing the people around me. I had had enough. I was broken and dying inside and I was crying for help. One day, in a stairwell by the journalism class, I bore my sole to someone. She listened to me, she heard me. I don't know what made her say the right things. I cant say what it is that made her understand I was desperate. But she listened to me. I told her that I was going to kill myself. When I left school that day I knew what it was I was going to do. So did she. All the way home I planned it. The in and out, the walking away. Things I would never get to say, but I had to accept it. Because stopping and saying something would mean I was caught and I didn't want to be caught. I wanted to be dead.

I opened the back door to drop my bag off at home and my dad called my name. I went in and life went out of focus. I remember trying to leave. I was so angry at her. She called and she told my parents everything. I was fighting and kicking and yelling. How could she do this to me, I trusted her. I believed that she wouldn't tell anyone ANYONE! How could she actually listen to me, and save my life? My dad had grabbed me and was holding on to me for dear life. Someone called the police. I was handcuffed and put in the back of an ambulance. I was taken to Christ Hospital. I hated everyone. I hated my dad for stopping me, I hated Jill for calling and telling on me and I hated myself, because it took me so long to tell someone.

Today my son came home and he crawled into my lap and he cried. Now my son is 11. He's not so little anymore. So when he crawls into my lap like that I know that something is wrong. He told me about a boy in his class that told him today that he cuts himself. He told my son that it makes him feel better when he bleeds, and that he does it often. When class ended my son asked to go to the counselor. He told her what his friend had said. She told him she was proud of him for telling her. That his friend was making a cry for help and that someone had heard him.

I know by coming here I am sharing this with everyone and my son asked me not to tell, but I figure if I leave out names and everything than maybe it wont be so bad. But how can I not tell how proud I am of my son. How proud I am that I am raising a boy who is smart enough to know when to tell. He is compassionate and kind and good. He is so very good.

There are people in this life who play a major role in other peoples lives and they don't even know it. I didn't tell Jill until just a few years ago how she saved my life. I don't know if this kid will come back to my son in 20 years and tell him that he made a difference. I do know that my son will carry it in his heart and to me that makes a difference.