When my first life ended, I was 28.

I was a married mother of two. I worked from home. I had a high school diploma. We lived in a mobile home on a big rural lot.

I’d met my first husband at 20. We were married the following year. We had a boy when I was 23 and a girl when I was 26.

We were very poor. We did not get public assistance. We rarely had two working vehicles. There was nothing for miles. The trailer felt like a prison.

My mental health declined. Counselors were unsuccessful at reaching a diagnosis. Therapy began and ended abruptly. It was not easily accessible.

My first life ended in a hospital far from home.

I take nothing for granted now.

When I left, I got a small apartment, a new job and a newer vehicle, and I went to college. I needed a lot of support to make that happen. I’m blessed— and I put in work.

My story may someday inspire. It flows slowly lately.

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