I sat in the driver’s seat of my mother’s car, waiting for her to finish at a doctor’s appointment. I was in the throes of an intense anxiety attack. The pain of living with an abusive stepfather, intense body hatred, a failing job search after college, recovering from a sexual assault, my unmanageable anxiety, depression, and self-hatred was too much to bear. My life had no meaning. I had no hope for the future, there was nothing to look forward to that could be any better. There was a bottle of narcotic drugs leftover from an ankle surgery sitting in my purse, much more than I would ever need. A flat soda was in the cup holder. Life would never get better. The pain I felt was too much. No one would miss me. My cup was too bitter and there was only one way to end the pain and darkness. I decided this was the end.
