My sister tried to kill herself. Or, at least, I think she did.
I was eleven years old. I don’t remember much about it; it was a long time ago – kind of a blur at this point. The thing that sticks out is all the little pink hearts – speed pills. She’d swallowed a shit-load, then sprayed them all over the upholstery of the car with her vomit.
Mom rolled down the windows. The stench was bad.
I watched those little pills drip off the top of the car as we raced to the hospital to have her stomach pumped.
She was thirteen years old.
She survived it.
To this day, I don’t know why she did that.
I was too young to understand much, but it makes me wonder now.
What could have been so troublesome for her at that age? I don’t even recall her having a boyfriend at the time. She never did drugs before then. It’s not like we lived on skid row or anything – we were at my sweet grandmother’s house for Christ’s sake. Where in the hell does a thirteen year old girl find a bunch of speed?
Maybe they were just caffeine pills. Maybe it was just a ploy for attention or a cry for help. Maybe not.
I’ll never know.