In 8th grade.

I'm an 8th grade teacher.

Today I went to a seminar that was about physical, emotional, and sexual child abuse.

One of my students is a bit down now and then. But I look at her and say to myself, "I was like that when I was her age. And I turned out all right."

After the seminar, I examined my thoughts a little bit. Was I really all right when I was her age?

In 8th grade I was alone. My parents both worked nights, so I only saw them on weekends. I made my own dinner. I made my own bed time. I sat in the house all night by myself. I felt so lonely that I would lay in bed and cry.

In 8th grade I was miserable. When I did see my parents, it wasn't enjoyable. My dad would scream and yell. He'd threaten me. He'd tell me that he wanted to kill himself. He'd say that there was no point to life anymore.

In 8th grade my dad was an alcoholic. He'd bring over his alcoholic friends on the weekend and they'd all get extremely drunk and I'd hide in my bed, crying. He'd drive them home, drunk, and have me in the car. I was always frightened that we would get into an accident. He couldn't even talk without slurring, and I had to help him open the car door.

In 8th grade I was afraid because my dad was abusing mild prescription drugs, and I worried that he was going to start doing other drugs again like he had done in the past. I worried about the mirror under my parents' bed that had white powder and a razor blade on it.

In 8th grade I hated myself. My dad told me that I was ugly. That I had a big nose and big ears. He told me that I shouldn't ever tell anyone I was half Puerto Rican/Spanish because people don't like "Spics." "Spics are dirty." "You have a Puerto Rican nose."

In 8th grade I thought I was a lesbian and I had to listen to my mom's regular rants about how gay people are disgusting and it's wrong and "God" doesn't like it. That gay people "choose" to be that way so they are "choosing" to be harassed.

In 8th grade I started to cut myself regularly.

In 8th grade, I attempted suicide. I poisoned myself. I slit my wrists. And then when my parents found out what I did and left work to make sure I was all right, they didn't comfort me. They told me that I was an idiot. That I was stupid. That "child protective services" were going to take me away. That when they'd "take me away" I'd see how lucky I was.

In 8th grade I found new ways to hurt myself without being caught, because I didn't want my parents to harass me again for being stupid. I did inhalants. I used minor illnesses as an excuse to take my mother's pain killers. I'd only cut myself on my stomach or upper thighs, where no one could see.

Overall, I wasn't all right.

I was contemplating suicide starting 6th grade. Age doesn't matter. "8th grade" doesn't mean anything. 12 year olds and 13 year olds can have serious problems just like adults have serious problems.

I would have done anything to have a support system when I was in 8th grade. In 11th grade I was contemplating suicide once again, and a TEACHER did something about it. He got me the help I needed. He might have saved my life.

I care a lot about my students. Tomorrow I'm going to casually ask this girl how she's feeling and if everything is okay. Maybe it's just normal teenage emotions, but maybe it's not.

In 8th grade I had a friend that I lost because he attempted suicide, which resulted in permanent brain damage.

I want to be the kind of teacher that prevents something like that from happening.