I was 8-years old the first time I wished for death. I wasn’t actively suicidal, but I prayed I would die (or at least be severely injured) by my mother as she threw the Fisher Price washing machine in my direction. I was sitting on my bed, silently crying, holding my knees. I hadn’t cleaned my room and my mother was angry. Maybe I had shoved too much stuff under my bed because I didn’t want to deal with it, I don’t really remember which time this was.
Widow, scientist, mother to many, recovering codependent, and blossoming woman. A survivor. My goal in life is to pass on a greater legacy to those after me.