“Layla got admitted to a mental facility. She's been self-harming and she tried to kill herself.” Did I fail as a sister? Did society fail her? I thought I should feel upset or sad or worried for her, right? I'm supposed to be more concerned that she tried to take away her life and ask her how she's doing. But this wasn't how I felt. I was pissed. Your life isn't your own, you hurt people by making the choice to take your own life. I was so angry that she tried to go without some sort of goodbye or note. I was infuriated that she didn't try to fix the problem or get help. But I knew that if she was successful in her attempt, I would be having a different conversation. The successful cases always start out with people who were unhappy and struggled to reach out for help, and the only difference between them and Layla was that she failed. I thought I was heartless for my lack of empathy until I heard what my mom had to say about the next day: “Go to school tomorrow. Get the homework for your sister. If people ask where your sister is, just tell them that she got sick. You aren't lying to them. Don't tell your cousins, just keep this to yourself.” Our dirty little secret was swiftly swept under the rug and we were still the picture-perfect family that she imagined in her head. Do the work, get through the day, go home. It went like this for some weeks as Layla was in and out of that haunted building. That nightmare that put bars on an already trapped mind. She laughs about stories of "butt juice" and funny nurses, but I knew when she told me those stories that every night she cried herself to sleep on that firm mat, in a room of people she never knew before. Girls shared anecdotes that made Layla's story seem like a lullaby. I knew the cage that she had to suffer in for what must have felt like ages with only minutes of communication with friends and family on a daily basis. I walked around school pretending that everything was okay; all I had to do was say “my sister isn't feeling well” and smile. I know the frustration that my mother had to endure with Layla's situation, so I took care of myself. I was one less child to worry about. I didn't have time to be sad. Every day, after eight hours of pretending that everything was fine, I walked myself to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for dinner, and when I got home, I would begin the process of feeding five mouths- one less than “normal”. I would clean up everything and get to work or bed. I didn't have time to be sad. That one weekend was supposed to be like rain in the desert. I was finally going out for the first time since the storm struck. I was out with a friend when I got the call. Words that would echo in my mind forever as I answered the phone to a furious mother: “I'm done. If Layla wants to kill herself, then fine, let her do it. I don't care anymore. I just want her gone and out of the house. I don't ever want to see her after she graduates high school” In the span of one month, I became a mom, a therapist, and alone. Part of me was furious that she couldn't maintain her composure and have the patience to attend to her mentally ill child after all the hours I spent to make sure she had little housework to do. But I knew when I heard those words that my mother wasn't trying to be difficult, it was her cry for help. “Hey, mom, you don't mean that. I know that she's frustrating at times, but she is your daughter and you love her. She is trying her best to get better, but it's a long process.” Who did I have to bring peace to my chaos? I grew even madder at no one. I took on extra responsibilities, I did what I was told to protect the perfect dollhouse image of our family, but in the process, I lost myself. I did nothing for myself and I stopped talking to the people that were knights in protecting my mental health when hell went loose. I found a safe haven in the one place I have never enjoyed since the third grade: math class. Anyone that tells you that math teachers are terrible people either (1) failed math or (2) never took a single good math course in their entire life. My math teacher let me rant to him about completely irrelevant details like the perks of being a Disney princess or the lack of warm bagels in the cafeteria on a daily basis. He was the only person to point out tendencies in Layla that kids my age have never recognized. He knew about the responsibilities that I had going on at home and it felt nice to be seen. I felt like I was sacrificing my time for people that didn't even notice me, but someone was looking in from the outside and he knew the pain I was putting myself through. He knew the fake smile that I put on and the fire that I couldn't seem to put out no matter how hard I tried. I didn't blame people around me for not seeing me clearly, I was simply grateful for finding a space where I could relax my shoulders and stop holding my breath.

My first job was at a popular, upscale local restaurant that shall remain nameless. I had the distinct honor of greeting our guests at the door and finding suitable accommodations for their dining needs. I was a hostess. A menu and silverware slinger. The face of the business and the keeper of the wait list. While the place was classy as hell, the owners were unbearably pretentious. Designer clothes, artificial (or at the very least, enhanced) facial features, and a beyond extravagant lifestyle set these folks apart, and in their minds, high above, the majority of the business owners in our area. That mood permeated the entire place. Never mind the fact that we were in southern Oklahoma and not Beverly Hills. Never mind the fact that most of our patrons drove pick-up trucks and not BMWs. This was true of the owners, the managers, servers, cooks, host/hostesses, bussers, and perhaps most importantly, the customers. I was joined in my greeting duties by two alpha females from my school. At school, they were not extremely popular, but also not outcasts. They had an adequately sized group of friends, composed mostly of fellow athletes that they could successfully intimidate and boss around. They were abrasive, aggressive and grossly lacking in class. All of these details, however, did not prevent them from feeling superior to the common folk they were forced to walk amongst. It was as if simply being employed by this elitist establishment, simply receiving a W-2, was the only license needed to belittle and shame others. It was not attractive. Obviously, my kind heart did not last long. After parting ways with my first source of income, the rumors at school began to swirl. It was sophomore year, and I was on top of the world. I made excellent grades, participated in several extracurricular activities and was not too many rungs down on the social ladder. I was a well-behaved teenager who was terrified of the consequences of getting into any significant trouble. As such, I was surprised when I began to observe that the gossip-filled notes being passed fervently across the room from student to student managed to pass over me. I was not included in the latest buzz, and by my fellow student's reactions, I could tell it was juicy. Feeling left out, I complained to my current best friend after class. Her eyes immediately fell on her shoes, which began awkwardly shuffling weight from one to the other. She bit her lip, then cautiously raised her eyes to meet mine. “You know why they skipped you, right?” she said. “The notes are about you. Apparently, there's a rumor going around that you are pregnant and your parents made you quit your job.” I couldn't move. My stomach dropped, my heart rate increased and suddenly I was finding it difficult to find air to fill my lungs. How could anyone possibly believe this? I was sixteen years old, my own mother was currently 4 months along with my little sister! “AHA!” I thought to myself. That was it! Someone must have seen me buy a pregnancy test (for my mom) several weeks back and assumed the worst. I began to relax. Once people realized that my mom was having a baby, they would feel silly and the rumors would stop, I was sure of it. The relief was short lived, however. As I looked up, I saw a trio of fast-moving bodies coming toward me down the hallway. It was my boyfriend of 2 years, flanked by two familiar and angry alpha females. I'll save everyone here the drama of the back and forth, voices raised, he said/she said drama and just let you all know that everything turned out well in the end. I convinced my boyfriend that I was not going to be giving birth to his offspring in the coming months. My very pregnant mom came to school events frequently, showing everyone that my retorts to their claims were valid and true. There is one twist to this story, and it gives me profound joy to this very day. On the day of graduation, a little over two short years later, the sun rose and shined on my life with endless promise and possibility. Those two alpha females joined me in celebration as we walked across the stage and received our diplomas; both in their third trimester.