I am not crazy. I’ve spent countless hours convincing myself of this. My wrists are scarred, my knuckles bruised, my pillowcase tear-stained. But I am not crazy.

I don’t want attention. I wear sweaters and a smile to avoid your pity. I have lied, cheated, and stolen to protect my dignity. I don’t want attention.

I am not dead. I know the coldness of a shotgun barrel. I’ve held the pills in my hand. I’ve stood on the edge of the bridge. Living was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I am not dead.

I am not a statistic. I am the girl down your hall. I am the teacher’s pet. I am the musician. I deliver your mail. I fix your sink. I am your teacher. I am your brother, your mother. Your sister, your father, your grandparent, your aunt, your cousin, your best friend. I am not a statistic.