My grandmother was the glue to my family. She was always thinking about what others needed before she would think about her own needs. She was someone who believed in giving people second chances even when they didn’t deserve them. Then one day my grandmother was gone. I was 17 and lost the only woman I called grandma. No one seemed to know how to handle the responsibilities of taking care of the house.

At first, I didn’t realize she was gone. But then, nine months later, I had a mental breakdown during class in the middle of the school day. I started crying. I decided to tell my English teacher that I was feeling alone and school was feeling overwhelming.We had built a relationship where I felt comfortable talking, Sitting at her desk, head down with tears running down my face. We talked until the bell rang to switch classes. She told me everything was going to be okay and that a good kid like me should never be hurting as much as I am. Leaving this conversation I felt understood and like I had someone who would make sure that I was okay.

Later that day I told my math teacher about these same thoughts. He asked me questions about how I was feeling and I ended up telling him about my self harm, which I had just started. I reached out because I knew that it was time that I asked for help, but knowing that it was going to be hard. Telling him made me feel understood.

Later, my teachers pulled me aside and  asked how I was doing and told me that I should never self harm. I tried to pretend that I didn’t care about how much they were worried about my wellbeing and my safety. They gave me two choices: I could go to my social worker myself or I could let them go to my social worker if I didn’t feel comfortable enough to do it.

The next day I was called into my social worker’s office. I didn’t know what she wanted to talk about at first though I wondered if my teacher had reached out. She then asked me if there was something I wanted to share. I said yes.  I talked to her for more than an hour.  I told her about how sometimes the voices and thoughts in my head were louder than kids talking in a classroom. How these thoughts would make me feel sad and alone, like I didn’t belong here.  Telling her was frustrating at first because I knew that it was something I had to do.

She expressed her concern and the next step was calling my mom to let her know the situation. I was asked if I wanted to be in the room while she talked to my mom. I didn’t want to hear what was going to be said so I waited outside.

For two weeks I skipped most of my classes and stayed in my English teacher’s class room for most of my classes. Everyone was worried and concerned about me, which made me feel overwhelmed at first, but also amazed because of how much they cared. I filled out papers for therapy, and  began attending a group session once a week. Therapy and group sessions have been great so far and I now realize it  was something that was needed. I have come to realize I have a pretty good support system at school with some of the greatest people I've ever met and trust with my toughest situations. When I have a bad day, they listen and allow me to take space away from my classes to regroup myself. With everything I was, I am still going through, I know that no matter how I am feeling, there are people I can talk to during the school day to help me finish the day strong.

© Alani. All rights reserved. If you are interested in quoting this story, contact the national team and we can put you in touch with the author’s teacher.