The night air nipped at my fingers as I put the cigarette to my lips. Surrounded with my closest companions, we watched the clock, waiting for the ball to drop on New Year’s Eve. “Five, four, three, two, one!” we shouted, as that shiny sphere fell, dawning the start of 2016. Not being able to hold in the liquid courage that filled my stomach, I ran outside, leaving throw up all over my friend’s welcome mat. Ignoring my warning, I continued to drink. I felt carefree. His smile welcomed me, he kissed me,  and then, taking my hand, he led me outside. After that I could not remember a thing.

I slept the entire next day, trying to rid myself of all the pain that filled me. I woke up with an aching headache,  and puke dried on my shirt.  In the afternoon, I remembered the events of the night before, and wished I had not. Ashamed, I hid myself in my room until my mom came to talk to me. She entered through my door, worry written all over her face. “What happened last night? You’ve been sleeping all day and you know I don’t trust you” she said.

Not being able to bear the hurt anymore, I blurted out my recovered memories. She looked at me, silent for what felt like an eternity. As she left the room quietly, that feeling of shame overcame me. I grabbed my lime quilt, covered my face, and tried to fall asleep again. About an hour later, my mom entered my room, she touched my leg, gently waking me from my slumber. “I’m taking you to the hospital, get up” she said as she dragged me out of bed. I did not want to go, I did not want to be considered a snitch, but I needed to know that I was okay.

I sat in the all white room, as the smell of bleach burned my nostrils. The nurse walked in, wearing blue scrubs and a bright smile. “So what seems to be the problem?” she asked.  Hiding my face in embarrassment, I could not bare to tell her what happened. Looking to my mother for support, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair and spilled the beans. A frown grew on the nurse’s face as the story came to a halt. She left the room and returned with a computer, sitting down in the seat next to me, starting my interrogation. I felt so much pain when I answered her questions, and my eyes stared at the freshly waxed floor. “Would you like to press charges?” she asked.

“Press charges?” I thought to myself. “I can’t snitch, those are my friends, they would hate me if I told.” All of a sudden, I pondered what I had just thought about and realised, friends help to prevent things like that from happening, and friends sure as hell do not do things like that. I looked to my mom, and her big brown eyes brought me back to the reality that, for so long, I tried to escape. Those people at that party, or any party I had been to, were not friends. They stayed around because of the drugs I offered and the money in my purse. For so long my mother tried to push the idea that they did not care for me, and on New Year’s day I came to find out, she spoke the truth. None of those people were with me in that hospital room, but my faithful mom held my hand and supported me, even when I had been gone for so long.

On the car ride back, I felt ashamed again. Smoking a cigarette, my tears put it out. I cried all the way home. I finally had hit rock bottom. But this time, instead of using whatever I could get my hands on to numb the pain, I decided to save myself, and start feeling.  I began to move on with my life, started back in school, began attending counseling, and doing whatever I needed to do to get my life back on track.  Although everyday is a struggle to keep moving, I keep the reminder in the back of my mind, “to live today” and it gives me peace.