This Has Been Long Overdue

So, after Valentine's Day, I had to write an essay about a turning point in my life. I figured what better then my recent attempt?
However, I couldn't bring myself to share that essay with anyone. I feel like it's about time I did.
So here it is:

Turning Points Essay
Suicide is considered to be a feeble attempt at escaping reality. Attempted suicide, on the other hand, is a pathetic reason to remain alive. It leaves the person at hand in a state of anguish, feeling remorse at having failed so simple a task, but without the strength to try again. An upsetting statistic is all we are afterwards. A statistic of eight. Eight attempted suicides per each completed. All I was afterwards. One of eight unfortunate folk envious of the ninth who happened to be successful and thus no longer on this Earth.
What I don’t understand is why people fear death. After all, it is the one thing we can be sure of. The one thing we can be dependent on. Yet, we all fear it, thinking of it as an unknown rather than a certainty. So, the question remains; if death is so definite to occur, what then is the remaining variable? I suppose the unknown would be “what happens next”? A question that I, whether fortunately or unfortunately, do not have the answer to.
I do, however, have the answer to the questions racing through your head right now. What would drive a person towards such a weak escape? I suppose in order for you to truly understand how I felt right before I emptied my cupped hand into my mouth, I’d need to go back a couple years and discuss the numerous arguments and fights that drove me to the conclusion that suicide was my only option. However, for the sake of time, we’ll only turn the clock back to the beginning of the month.
To begin with, my parents, like the majority of foreign parents, had little trust in me, and were against the concept of “average teenage behavior”. Going to parties, staying out late, even sleeping over at a good friend’s house; these were all taboo. I believe it was because I was so restricted that I decided to act out, to attempt to experience everything I was “supposed” to experience. I needed to have something in my life that was under my control. Since my first year of high school, I’d been behaving recklessly. The most recent and the technical cause for my moment of weakness was a party I’d gone to.
Having convinced my parents that it was an all girls sleepover party, with one of my close friends and a couple of her other friends, I managed to manipulate my parents into letting me go. The party was a wild one, one of the worst I’ve been to. The overpowering scent of alcohol, cigarettes, vanilla flavored cigars, and marijuana left everyone in a state of frenzy. At about four in the morning, people were beginning to pass out, the majority of the guests gone. I woke up about three hours later, only to find my hostess cleaning the house frantically. A couple hours later, the house was clean with my assistance, and my father was on his way to pick me up. As I stepped into the car, my dad looked at me, and I could see the suspicion in his face. I didn’t realize how strong the smell of the party was, nor did I realize how thoroughly the scent had stuck to my jacket.
It wasn’t until a couple days later that my parents confronted me with their suspicions. They told me that they thought I was using “illegal substances” and they wanted to have me do a drug test at the police station. Without going into detail, I can say that they learnt about a lot of things the next couple days, things that shocked and disappointed them. Due to this, they lost all trust and faith in me. Everything went downhill from there. Arguments were raging, threats were thrown, and not just between my parents and I. The situation was taking its toll on my parents and their relationship as well. My father’s health was in jeopardy, my mother was keeping a strong front, but we could all see that she was crumbling.
It was around this time, on Valentine’s Day to be exact, that another argument ensued. This time I was listening to them tell me how disgusted they were by my actions, that they didn’t understand, that I was to blame for the destruction of our family. I felt like I was losing my mind; the only thing I had left and it too was leaving me. Beside me was the Advil bottle. In it were about twenty pills. Five of which were the prescribed pills the dentist had given me the day I had had my molars removed. There they sat, reminding me that I had other options. I didn’t have the strength the first time. The yelling continued. Nothing had been solved, no alternative solution suggested. Waiting for the moment my parents left my room, I knew what I wanted to do. Almost on impulse, opening the container, I emptied the contents into my mouth, and took a gulp of water. I was in shock.
They didn't yet know. I was almost at peace, thinking "I won't have to cry for much longer". I spent the rest of the day in a state of semi-consciousness; in and out of sleep all day. They soon found out, by putting one and one together. Knowing that I don't normally sleep much, and noticing how many Advils were missing, they figured it out.
Despite the hell we went through, a lesson was learnt and I was reshaped. Today, after some time, I recognize how fragile life can be, and try daily to become a different person. Not necessarily a better person, but a more accommodating one at least. After all, being an individual, and making your own decisions, isn’t always about being rebellious; and after being so close to losing everything, a person realizes that many things are more important than we initially gave them credit for.