As news of the Aurora massacre travels, and love is spread, I realize how silly it was of me to want, so badly, to take my life. I woke up for work and heard it on the news. It really, really upset me. So many life’s so ruthlessly taken, so many more damaged and tattered. People hurting and grieving. Even though I wasn’t there and wasn’t a part of it, it hit me. I don’t like to see other people in pain. It hurts me to see them in pain because I just want to fix it. I can’t fix their pain, I have too much of my own to fix. 21 years of holding it all in, holding others, and letting it fester. So, I want to talk to you about why I wanted to kill myself, so selfishly, while others are, and have been, robbed of their own. You see, it’s not just one thing, it was a multitude of things revolving around my mom. A few months ago I wrote her a letter telling her that I didn’t want anything to do with her and that she need not have anything to do with me. I told her she meant nothing to me. I told her, “this is the last you’ll hear from me”. I lied. As much as I wanted to be done with her, I couldn’t. I watched as everyone around me enjoyed the love and comfort of their own people. I watched as Bailey comforted, encouraged, guided, argued, apologized to, and helped Zhanna. I watched as Becca hugged, laughed with, taught, directed, and helped strengthen Li-Li. As I observed these things, again and again, it weighed on me that my mom wasn’t, isn’t, doing those things. In fact, it raced in my head that my mom never did, nor ever will do, those things. She doesn’t want me. And even though I was getting those same exact things from Bailey, Zhanna, Becca, and Li-Li, it didn’t matter because it wasn’t my mom. I waited for my adoptive family to step up and do their job, to help me, to support me, to love me. They didn’t. I waited for a family. A mom. And even though I have a family, a group of people who support and love me, it didn’t matter. They weren’t my mom. Friends from my hometown called and informed me of mishaps happening in my mom’s care. My sisters doing things they shouldn’t, under my mom’s influence, and I was mad. She wasn’t influencing me, instead she was influencing the ones she now calls her kids. Every day something little happened and my mom popped up. She wasn’t here. She wasn’t comforting me. Supporting me. Encouraging me. She wasn’t wiping my tears, hugging, guiding, laughing with, or helping me. Instead, she was oblivious to the fact that I even exist, and to me, that was too much to bear. I let it eat at me and whither my mind. I let it entangle itself and mesh with every thought, every sight that my body experienced. The week that I tried killing myself was overwhelming, to say the least. Flashback after flashback ensued, dreams got worse, and I felt like I had no one. Bailey had her friend in town and then was too busy, I felt like I didn’t matter. It was the 4th of July. No therapy. Becca and I didn’t talk. I felt alone and my mom issue engulfed me. It took over me so quickly I had no time to stop it. For weeks, I was in my reptilian brain. I was tired. I hated her. I wanted her. The night that I tried killing myself I wrote my mom. I asked her where she was and where she’s been. I told her I didn’t understand how she could just be so oblivious to my existence. Subconsciously, I wasn’t ready to die. Subconsciously, my body understood the chemistry between the things I took and knew that it wouldn’t kill me, only make me ill. Subconsciously, it was a cry for help, a cry for her. But the intensity, the vigor in the note to my mom was enough and physically I wanted to be gone. The day after I got out of the hospital I logged on to the internet and there waited an email from both her and a sister of mine. My cry was heard…but in response I was blessed with a realization that she, and my sisters, are too sick to understand. They are too ill to know what it means to love unconditionally, to be in relationship. They are too weak to understand that family doesn’t leave. I was blessed with the realization that my family does love me, but my family is not typical. I don’t have a mom, a dad, brothers, or sisters. Instead, I have a group. I’m okay now. My cry is no longer so strong and my will to live has returned. My desire to release and forgive my mom and siblings came from the news of the 12 robbed lives and many shaken, because you never know where, or when, your last breath will be. I selfishly tried taking my last breath in a cry for a desolate woman. They, without warning, were robbed of theirs.