"Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, or risk that you have taken and its impact on you."

I was going to die.
Lying soundly in my bed, I was pretty sure that this wasn't a thought that often came into a typical person's head when they were trying to get some sleep. Then again, though, I wasn't a "typical" person, so maybe that had something to do with it.
I could feel the pills working their way into my system. My blood felt sluggish and slow. They were slowly poisoning me, the pills, and I was beginning to feel the effects. My eyelashes fluttered as a feeling of wooziness flushed over me. I knew I had to savor every last moment, but it was hard to focus on anything, my eyes seemingly dilated by the drugs.
I tried to ignore the emotions that were swirling around me. Faces of loved ones appeared in my line of sight, vanishing as I tried to focus in on them. I felt dizzy as the room began to spin, and I shut my eyes in hopes that I wouldn't vomit.
Pain stabbed my heart as I remembered why I had done this in the first place. I felt pinpricks of tears forming on my lower eyelid. I wasn't going to cry, I promised myself. I bit my lip, hoping pain would drive the sadness away.
He didn't love me. It was as simple as that. Yet, it felt so complicated, so tangled, that it left me feeling muddled inside.
Yet...it barely seemed worth it, the way he had phrased it, as if me loving him was congruent to him being eaten alive by parasites. Why should I give him the satisfaction of my death? What had I thought, that it would please him? That it would make him regret and feel guilty?
Sitting up, I fought the sudden ache in my head. Sadness turned to rage as I got up, and went to the bathroom.
Looking in the mirror, I said to myself, "I am going to live."
And then, of course, I threw up.