I was only 6 years old. It was November and I was excited to start painting with my family when my grandma stopped me. I almost wish she had never said anything about my tights being loose. She notified my mother and grandpa of the situation and the next thing I know my mom is holding me, I'm crying while my grandpa pokes me with a diabetic pen.

I remember freaking as soon as I saw the blood. My blood sugar was 500. I was rushed to the hospital where they diagnosed me with type 1 diabetes. I couldn't understand what was going on. I was too young to know, too young to be learning how to take shots everyday, too young to worry about carbs, too young to be afraid of slipping into a diabetic coma if I mess up. I was just too young.

Later on I had gotten used to the shots, the check ups, everything. I became numb to the feeling of a needle puncturing my skin. The only thing I never got used to was everyone staring at me while i did it, like I was a freak show. I remember the weird looks, mothers covering their child's eyes as if I was a flasher in the streets of New York. Kids at school would tease me, calling me horrid names, pushed me around.

In 6th grade I started to cut myself. I had stopped since then but I still see the faded scars on my arms. I didn't want to hear the voices again. Saying that there's something wrong with me, that I would never be like them. I would say something but the adults would only say "Kids can be cruel; don't worry." As if they've been pushed, punched, being torn apart from the outside in. I grew depressed, not knowing I'll be OK again.

Then I snapped. In 8th grade I attempted suicide, craving the sound of silence and the feeling of freedom. Before I was going to pass out my family and friends popped into my head. My mother's crying face, my best friend holding onto her favorite stuffed cat because it was the only thing that comforted her, and my sister who wouldn't know what to do. I finally let go of the Christmas lights around my neck and cried. I was alone and afriad of myself.

The next day at school I pretended as if nothing happened. I had written my best friend a note saying what i did. My theatre teacher found it and then a phone call was made. I was placed into a mental hospital, (To me it was.) and I was on suicide watch for a week. I was learning to cope. Learning to live with the voices and throwing them a bone to keep them at bay. I still live with my anxiety and depression. I know they'll never go away. But now I know how to control them. I'm here, surviving.