As the days went by, I began to notice that Karen had a boot on her foot. I had an idea of why that was, but I didn’t want to think about it. Eventually, I tried to put my mind to ease, but to no avail. I asked Karen why she had a boot on all the time one day as I was being driven to school. She gave me a look of disgust and said, “You should know why. It’s because you broke my foot!”
At that moment, I knew my suspicions were spot on. It was my doing. I just had a breakdown and cried when I realized I hurt the person I saw as my only savior in this cruel world. I had tried repeatedly to reconcile what I had done by behaving better, but nothing I did seemed to have had an effect.
I tried to do more around the house. I tried to improve but couldn’t seem to do it. Everywhere I looked, people gave me looks of disgust, hatred, and pure dissatisfaction. I fucked up badly; I thought to myself. I started mentally criticizing myself for the most minor things. This was the first time I truly began to hate myself. I remember one day as I was sitting in the car being driven home; I decided I couldn’t take it anymore, so as soon as we got home I got under my covers and tried choking myself with some string.
Thankfully, my sister saw me with the string around my neck and she got Karen and they helped get the string off of me. I had failed to do something right once again. I guess someone called 911 because the next thing I know; the ambulance is whisking me away on a stretcher and I’m in a hospital bed.
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