When I was a teenager, a child who went to my school and lived at the end of my street shot himself. He didn’t make straights A’s on his report card and he couldn’t face his parents. His name was Sean Wilson.
I didn’t know him personally, but my friends did. Two more children attempted to kill themselves shortly after.
Then, the day after Thanksgiving, I tried to kill myself, too.
Just two years prior, a friend of mine, who lived on the opposite end of the same street, shot himself in the head while I was sitting in the classroom wondering why he was absent. It was an accident. His name was Michael.
I don’t know if the people in my hometown remember or care, but I do. I still drive by his house because he mattered to me.
It still matters to me.
Leelah Alcorn’s death has sparked conversation and attention all over the…
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