I attempted suicide. I was young, in love, and in over my head. I distinctly remember wanting everything to stop. That night I learned three things. I learned that my boyfriend wasn’t willing to sit around and watch me die. Literally, he wasn’t willing to. He wrestled one of the two bottles of pills from my hand, called my father, and left our apartment hoping for the best. I also learned that one bottle of over the counter sleeping pills isn’t enough to kill you. Most importantly, I learned that educated black women don’t kill themselves.

The ride to the hospital was a trippy one. As my mother drove trees, street lights, and utility poles intertwined amidst pulsating skies streaked with orange, amber, and blue. It was as if Maurice Sendak’s “Where The Wild Things Are” had come to life, mixed with a tinge of The Beatles
“Yellow Submarine.”


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