People tell me that I should be thankful for the fact that I have a mother. That she's living and healthy and working and provides for me. People say that I should be thankful that I have a life and that I should thank my mother for giving me that life.

People don't know shit about my life.

According to my mother, I am ugly, fat, stupid, a spoiled brat, unsuccessful, a money-waster, a waste of money, too lenient with my money, unreliable, lazy, and irresponsible. I can't be counted on to do anything when the family really needs me. All I do is sit at the computer or at the TV and eat. I don't walk the dog, I don't wash the dishes, I don't take out the trash, I never clean anything. I won't survive in college because when she was my age in China during the Cultural Revolution, she had to do everything herself.

I don't have any real friends. I'm gay because I don't remember to always put lotion on my face. I don't ever learn anything. I will never get married. I will not be successful. I will grow old and I will die.

And that will be my life.

I skip school all the time. I made up a story about the suicide of a friend so I could skip school. I'm stupid. I'm racist. I'm retarded. I'm not good enough. I'm not fast enough. I shouldn't waste my time on volleyball. Volleyball is just a stupid sport anyways. It's just a game. I'm not worth anything. I'm nothing. I'm less than nothing. I'm not even dirt.

I shouldn't drive. I always scratch the car. I waste gas. I was electricity. I've never done anything worthwhile. I don't care about anything. I worry about stupid things.

I waste all my time on watching soccer. I have no life. I go out with my friends too much. They only like me for my money. I have no money of my own.

I'm a liar. I'm absolutely useless.

I'm fat.

I'm fat.

I'm fat.

I'm fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat.

I'm ugly.

Ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly.

I cry too much. I'm too sensitive. I'm pregnant. I'm a whore. I'm a spoiled brat of a whore. I have a boyfriend. I go out on too many dates. I've had sex. I do drugs. I drink.

I'm just like my dad. That's not a good thing.

I am nothing.

I don't deserve anything.

That's what I am, according to my mother. She doesn't outright say most of this, but it's clear what she's thinking of when she looks at me—wondering what she might have done to get me.

But it wasn't always like this. When we lived in Maryland, we were a happy family. Yes, my sister and I fought a lot more than we do now but at least I felt loved by my mother. At least I felt kind of happy. It's one thing to hate and be hated by your sister but it's another concept entirely when it's your mother.

I don't think I've ever been happy for an entire day in my life—that I can remember at least. I've never had a truly good day. But I do have happy moments and I do have friends. I'm not a liar. I'm not a slut. I don't do drugs. I'm not nothing. I'm not a waste.

And I say that and write that and read that but I don't believe that. I don't think I can ever believe that. Your childhood shapes your life and mine is almost over. And I'm definitely not naïve enough to believe that I'll get any support the moment I turn 18. When that last candle is blown, I'm on my own.

That rhymed.

A few days ago (or maybe it was a week; I don't even know anymore), I almost did it. And by it, I mean killed myself. Suicide. I was just about to finally let go. And I had it all (or mostly) planned out. I was going to clean my room because that's what my mother was yelling at me about for a good twenty minutes. It's not even yelling really. It's just her tone when she firmly believes that I'm dirt.

I just can't handle it. I'm still a child, no matter what she wants to believe, and I still crave her approval. I crave her love. I want her acceptance, not that I'll ever get it.

I was going to clean my room. I was going to fold all my clothes and organize them. Then I was going to call my dad because he was at work and tell him I loved him. I was tempted to text him but I don't have fantastic or reliable signal at my house and I wanted him to be the last one who heard me say anything. My dad is my only hero and one of the only things still keeping me here.

And by here, I mean alive.

I was going to call his cell phone and say these exact words: "Hi Daddy. It's Lai Lai. I love you." And then I was going to hang up. Or maybe I would just chat for a little while after I said that—it's not as if I was in a rush to kill myself. I just didn't want to get his voicemail because I wanted to hear him speak one last time. He's my comfort zone. I guess you could call me a Daddy's girl.

After my phone call, I was still debating on whether or not I should post something on Facebook or Tumblr. Or both. I knew I was going to change my status to these exact words: everybody: i'm so sorry. Maybe I was going to write a big note about verbal abuse and how much it hurts because it doesn't leave scars or marks or bruises. I don't trust anyone. I haven't told this to anyone and this will be the only time I ever do.

On Tumblr, I was probably just going to do the same thing. Make a text post and set the title to what my status would have been and then I was going to include the note about verbal abuse. And then I was going to do it. But I hadn't quite decided on how to do it yet.

Is contact solution poisonous when ingested? I was curious about that as I was picking up a pair of jeans and folding them before putting them into my new jeans drawer. I knew that nail polish remover was but I only had less than half a bottle of it left because I had spilled a bunch of it earlier. Now that I think about it, mouth wash is supposed to be poisonous (it says to call poison control if too much is swallowed) but I didn't realize it at the time.

Plus, I don't really want to drink it. Mouth wash or nail polish remover.

But that aside, I was still cleaning my room. I was cleaning for a while because I was thinking while doing it. I was thinking about whether or not I could actually go through with it. I was thinking about whether or not I was okay with missing tomorrow. Or the next day. Or whether or not my friends could handle it. A friend of mine had killed herself earlier and I felt like if I had talked to her, I could have given her some help because I'm depressed. I know it. But I won't be able to do anything about it until I'm 18 and have my own income.

I thought about calling my dad and telling him all of this. That I was depressed, that I was suicidal, that I might kill myself. I thought about asking for therapy. I thought about asking for help. Because I know I need help. That's pretty damn obvious. I thought about asking for anti-depressants.

But that's expensive. And I was not going to give my mom something else to bitch about or give my dad something else to worry about. I didn't think he could handle seeing his baby depressed. I don't think he could handle me killing myself.

So I continued to fold. And I continued to clean. I thought about my dog and my sister. I thought about my friends and my family. I thought about my dad. I knew my mom wouldn't give a shit other than the fact that my death would have made her look like a shit parent. I thought about leaving behind a note saying that I did this because of her. But then I thought about my family's annual Christmas party and how she wanted to go this year. I thought about my cousins' and aunts' and uncles' reactions towards her. I didn't want her to be hated by them because of me. Clearly, I've caused her enough grief.

I thought about school. I was very okay with the idea of not having to do my work. It was a Saturday that I almost killed myself. I remember now because I remember that I had an extra day of the weekend before school started up again.

A quote just popped up on my Tumblr dashboard. It's by someone named Leo Babauta. "The life you have left is a gift. Cherish it. Enjoy it now, to the fullest. Do what matters, now." I thought about including this for about three seconds before deciding to. What matters most for me is to become a surgeon and be happy. But I can't do either of those now. They're both too expensive.

I was so close to doing it. I was so close to setting myself free. To ending it all. To ending the burden that my mom has to deal with. To ending the disappointment I know my family has. To ending the annoyance that my friends face. To ending everything bad about me. For whatever reason, I was almost completely emotionally ready to do it. To not face tomorrow. To never face tomorrow.

But I didn't. And what kept me back was the thought that I couldn't leave my dad like that. I couldn't leave him in this household with a senile old grandfather and a person like my mother for a wife. I couldn't do that to him. He never deserved that. And he's been going through a rough patch with his job lately.

I want my mom to be happy. I want my daddy to be happy. I want my family to be happy. I want my friends to be happy. I know that eventually, they'd all get over my death. But I don't actually know what completely stopped me. Especially since right after I decided not to do it, I found two bottles of sleeping pills that my mom had thought were fever pills.

I just don't know what to do with myself anymore. I want to live out my life and be happy but I don't think I can do that. I don't think I'll be able to find someone who can handle me. I have too much emotional baggage with me. I have trust issues. I have mommy issues. I have issues in general.

But I want to be happy. More than anything, I want to wake up and be happy that I'm still alive.

I want to be set free in some way.