If asked, Brandy would say she didn’t know when it all started, when things went from good to bad to worse; from normal to the way they were now. She lay on her bed and thought of her parents drinking and arguing, blaming each other for things real and imagined. She remembered the loss of her friends, her growing disinterest in school, dropped courses and declining marks. She thought of her ex-boyfriend and his hurtful betrayal, the truth and the rumors of their time together now spread through the school like graffiti on a bathroom wall. She remembered the looks and the whispers and the total loss of self-esteem. No, she didn’t know when it all started, she only knew it would never, ever end.

When her parents weren’t blaming each other, they were blaming her, constantly pressuring and putting her down over her clothes, her looks, her attitude. And when teachers weren’t calling her lazy they were calling her a failure. They’d send her to the office, the office would send her to Guidance, and Guidance would send her back to her teachers. Looking for attention, they decided. Shape up or ship out. She had nowhere to turn and no one to talk to, and even if she did she didn’t know where to begin or how they could possibly help. She felt like she was suffocating, like she was trapped in a room filling with sand, and the more she tried getting out, the more sand would keep pouring in.

A long time ago, she thought about joining a youth group, but they all seemed so close, so happy, she knew she’d never fit in. She remembered the old joke—about not wanting to join any group that would have her for a member—but she didn’t laugh. No, she didn’t laugh, but for once, didn’t cry either. Rather, she rose from her bed and walked aimlessly to the bathroom. She reached for a bottle of Aspirin and began washing them down, one, two, three at a time. When she finished, she lay back on her bed, eyes vaguely focused, locked on the ceiling where it met in the corner with the pale, empty walls.

If asked, Brandy would have said she didn’t know when she started feeling so sad; so sad, so hopeless and so all alone.

But then again, no one ever asked.

John Weber, former television and radio news reporter, is a freelance writer, videographer and photographer. An award-winning graduate of Canadian Ryerson University’s Journalism program, Weber is also the author of one novel of commercial fiction, "The Point", and the publisher of World War II letters, "Letters Home".

You can contact John, or order The Point and Letters Home at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .