by Mary Brown

Created on: September 16, 2008   Last Updated: September 22, 2008

I find it odd that I don't fear death. I haven't for quite some time. As a child, death became a morbid obsession of mine for reasons that are beyond me. It seemed to have started when a cousin of mine reportly killed his wife and then commited suicide, leaving their 8 month old daughter alive and alone. And yet, he had a drug habit and had barrowed alot of money from people that you should never have barrowed money from. Regardless of whether it was suicide or murder, that is where my obsession began.

I recall in 3rd or 4th grade writing and illistrating a book that was about a girl whose boyfriend died in a car accident and she tried to kill herself. Maybe it is just me, but I would think that that would have raised a red flag for someone. But it didn't. Neither my parents or teachers seemed to think it odd. No one ever talked to me about it or ever attempted to get me help.
Everything just seemed to get worse in 94 when Kurt Cobain, lead singer of Nirvana, commited suicide. That seemed to be the beginning of a very dark and lonely road. Kurt Cobain and suicide, in my mind, went hand in hand together. We moved a few months later, which seemed to just add to my struggle. We went from a town of 10,000 to a town of 300 and living in the country. All of my freedom had been stripped away from me, and I rebeled in every way possible.
I fell in with the wrong crowd, and discovered drugs, alcohol, tobacco, and sex, all within 6 months of moving to that little town. More than my entire life spent in a town of 10,000. I ran away from home twice, and finally came my first suicide attempt, at the ripe old age of 12. It's apalling I know. My mother is a diabetic, and I just took anything and everything that was in the medicine cabinet. I, still to this day, have now idea what all of it was. I recall laying on the couch and feeling the effects of all I had taken. I was watching MTV and the video for Last Dance of Mary Jane was on. It was very ironic since Mary Jane is my name. That is the last thing that I remember. I must have made it to my bed at some point because that is where I woke up 4 days later. Both of my parents worked and it was the middle of summer. They never even realized that I had slept for 4 days. They just thought that I was awake while they were at work, and back asleep by the time they got home.
After my second time of running away, I was put in a foster home for a few months. I seen a counselor every week and never let anything on to her. Although

• 1
• 2
• 3
• Next Page >>