When I was 15, I attempted suicide with 59 pills of ibuprofen. I had just gotten in more trouble than I had ever been in before and to be honest, the thought of living scared me more than the thought of dying, and though I didn't know whether or not the amount I counted out would have what it took, I went to bed and decided to try and sleep. If I was lucky, I thought, I would die peacefully while I dreamed. Things didn't go as planned. Instead, after considering for what felt like hours that I might have made a mistake, I decided it would be a far worse fate to confess my error in judgment and the best decision at that point would be to let whatever happened happen. Though I drifted off to sleep somewhere through the night, I woke up with abdominal pain so bad that death couldn't come soon enough. However, I spent the remainder of the night and early morning fully alive in the fetal position as tears soaked my face and sheets. It seemed I would have to face a new day, and though I can remember wishing then that the pills had worked, I'm so grateful today that they didn't. It is one of various key times throughout my life that I know Jesus was in the room.