There’s only so long a person can take it. The voices, I mean. They followed me everywhere. To school, to orchestra practice, home…I just couldn’t take it anymore. Lots of people say that, I know. But even the voices told me my time had come.

It’s time to die… they hissed.

My tool of choice was a razorblade, applied to my left wrist. Red blood, pain, then…nothing. Just how it should have been. But the nothing faded into stark white, and the smell of disinfectant. A crisp sheet was tucked in around me.

“I’m Kerri,” said a woman in navy blue scrubs. “I’m your staff person tonight.”

“Where am I?” I asked, as politely as I could, under the circumstances.

“St. Luke’s Hospital,” she replied. “The psychiatric unit.”

“Oh.” It didn’t really register.

But it did. Counselors, roommates, therapists, doctors…it all fell into place. And a diagnosis—“Schizophrenia.”