I was a happy kid. I loved fashion and sewing (still do). I would play on our neighbor's trampoline for hours. I was a happy kid, until fourth grade.

The winter and spring of 2014 was the worst time of my life. It started on Wednesday, February 5th. My mom had just gotten back from a business trip from Washington, D.C.; she called and told us she was going to the hospital. That's when we knew something was wrong. My mom is not the kind of person to go to the doctor when she has the flu, nonetheless to the E.R. She once cut the tip of her finger off and put a band-aid on it to keep it secured, but hey, it worked.

My dad dropped me and my sister, Ellie, off at my maternal grandparents' house, and Ellie knew something was wrong because my dad does not like my grandparents. He rushed to the hospital without saying anything. I didn't see him or my mom the next day, or the day after that. Saturday rolled around, and he took us to the hospital, we were all wide-eyed with worry.

My mom had been moved to St. Luke’s by the Plaza. My dad didn’t turn the radio on for the entire 30-minute drive. Ellie, a kindergartener at the time was taking a nap in her car seat as tears silently rolled down my dad’s cheeks. I didn’t bother to ask what was wrong because I knew he would just lash out at me.

We arrived at the hospital, the smell of latex and carbolic acid filled my nose as we headed towards the elevator. We reached the room my mom was in, and Ellie started crying. I don't think she understood what was happening until then. We walked in, and my mom was asleep - tubes and wires dangling from her arms and stomach. My dad goes to wake her up, and a machine starts beeping like crazy, waking her up. Thankfully, my dad just stepped on a cord, but it scared us all.

"Momma!" Ellie cried; her arms outstretched. She ran to my mother and climbed on the white hospital bed. My mom gave her a weak hug and kissed Ellie on the forehead. Mom began to cough and look nauseous, so my father and Ellie went to grab a snack, leaving my mom and me alone.

My mom, overbearing and loving as ever, began to drill me with questions. "How's school? Did you sign up for the student council? Any missing assignments? How are your grandparents? Livv, I swear on all things good and holy, if you have a missing assignment after just 3 days in my absence, I will murder you." Then, she got serious. She asked me how I was doing emotionally. I told her the truth, that I was barely keeping it together for Ellie, much less myself. And, for the first time since I was taken to my grandparents’, I cried. It felt like Niagara Falls was pouring out of me. I felt a rush of absolute sadness.

My mom was in and out of the hospital the rest of the school year. I didn’t know until two years later that she was very close to death a few times. But, just when she was getting better, tragedy struck again. On April 10th, my cousin Kirsten (who was also my best friend) was in a car accident. I remember when I found out. I was playing and having fun with the neighborhood kids when my mom called me inside.

My mom sat me down on the couch and said “Livvy, honey, there has been an accident. I don’t know how bad or what happened, but I do know that Kirsten was hurt.” I said I understood and went up to take a shower. I was worried but not that much. People get in car accidents all the time and come out fine, right?

I had just gotten out of the shower, the water from my hair soaking my t-shirt on the back of my neck. My mom was sitting on the bed. She was crying. “Livvy, sweety, Kirsten passed away.” I absolutely lost it. You know in movies when people hear bad news and fall to their knees? I thought it did not happen in real life, but it does. And it happened to me, except I fell on the floor afterward. I could not believe it. My best friend was gone.

Her favorite song was “Story of my Life” by One Direction and she loved lime green. So “Story of my Life” was the song at her funeral; to this day, I can’t hear it without crying. I wore a green dress to her funeral. I knew she wouldn’t want her funeral to be full of people in black.

I started to spiral into a depressive episode. I developed anxiety. I haven’t started to get better until very recently. Until Freshman year, I wasn’t able to talk about her without crying. My mom kept reaching out to me, but I pushed her away, and that made things worse. If you are ever in a similar situation, please know that it is okay to get help. It doesn’t make you weak, it makes you strong. Strong enough to pursue the best thing for you. I know that now, but I wish I knew it then. Therapy helped me so much, over the past six years, I’ve started to heal, I am able to recognize that Kirsten’s death and my mother’s illness was in no way my fault. I used to go to therapy twice a week, but now I only go once every two weeks. Therapy no longer feels like an appointment, but more like a fun gossip session with a close friend. I think everyone should see a therapist. It relieves so much stress and makes you a better person.