Aleyka Ramirez 

Chicago Academy HS   

 
 
This is it. This is the day. The day I thought would never come yet at the same time I 
knew it was inevitable with the way things were happening. It’s Christmas Day, I am 
home alone sitting on my bed leaning against the headboard, crying with my box 
sitting next to me. Crying not because I’m alone, being alone is sort of a norm for me, 
but because I know up to this point that there is nothing and absolutely nothing left 
for me. I feel everything but I feel nothing at the same time. I am 17 years old. I am a 
junior in high school, the most important year, and everything is slipping fast away 
from my grasp. And I am ready to finally give up. 
Physically, I have gotten hurt many times. I have gotten stitches, the occasional 
broken bone, and a concussion here and there but nothing hurt me worse than the 
emotional pain. Growing up, there were certain times where nothing made sense and 
it was not until I was 10 years old where everything made sense. All the missing puzzle 
pieces came into place. A broken heart is caused by someone you love, that someone 
does not have to be a boyfriend or girlfriend. In my case, my mom broke my heart 
first. My mom was a single parent, she did everything by herself. She paid the house 
bills, always bought the food, and bought us clothes. She’s been through many hard 
times suffering the loss of her brother, a failed marriage with my sister’s dad, and the 
betrayal with my dad. I felt all of this. She didn’t hide her pain, she inflicted her pain 
onto me. Some days were great, she would act a mother but other days she would 
neglect. A ghost is what she was. I was confused. Why does my mom love me one day 
and hate me on the next? It didn’t get better as the years went on like one would 
expect. The fights grew worse and the periods between love and hate grew longer. 
She’s never emotionally supportive, I never got the healing hug of a mom when I 
needed it, and this is when reality hits me. She does not love me. At a time she did, 
which makes this reality hurt more. It was my fault that she didn’t love me and it was 
my fault that she is bipolar and it was my fault she is not happy. It’s our fault. We are 
the burdens that my mother has to carry with her. My lovely sister and I. My sister was 
the second to break my heart. My sister is the most beautiful person I know. I 
remember the day so vividly as if it happened yesterday. This was the day that 
everything changed with an easy flip of a switch. I was 10 years old the first time I saw 
my sister try to commit suicide. I was 12 years old the second time. I was 16 years old 
the third and fourth time. I was so angry at her the first two times, couldn’t she see 
that I needed her? That she kept me sane and that she gave me hope and that I loved 
her more than anyone? The last two times, I understood. I justified her reasons why 
because I had justified my reasons why as well. My father was the third person to 
break my heart. He was at the root of all problems. He sparked the flame that ignited 
the fire around my life. I was alone. I did not have anybody to cry to, to laugh with, or 
to make fun memories with. No one needed me around, I was completely and utterly 
alone.  
Here I am, home alone and in my room, crying. It’s Christmas Day, a holiday meant 
to be spent with family and the ones you love most. And I am alone, alone with my 
thoughts, my dear melancholy thoughts. I am forced to deal with what I feel, there are 
no distractions to mask what is real anymore. I’m not loved or needed or wanted and 
without these, why continue to live a life that is not worth living anymore? I’m tired of 
tending to this fire that does not cease. I opened my box, after clutching it in my hands 
as my tears streamed down my face. The items I kept inside, I held them in my hand, 
deciding which one will help me end it all. I don’t know what happened, what I thought 
next that made me put the items back in the box. That was supposed to be the end. In 
the end, I knew what I thought about. About who I thought about. My best friend, she 
isn’t here anymore but I felt an ounce of hope and I feel it everytime I think about her. 
Hope that I will make it out alive. Hope to have the will to continue on living. Hope that 
I will leave the city that holds so much of my pain.  
I am 18 years old. I am a senior in high school. I would not say that I am “better” but 
I would also not say that I am in the same place from where I was just a few months 
ago. Everything I had felt at the time and from the years before did not simply 
disappear into oblivion but they did get distant and bearable. It takes time to heal. I 
know this. The process is slow, but it has a guaranteed outcome of recovery.