I walked down the icy path leading to the front entrance of Crawford High. The bitter January wind bit at the skin I didn't bother to cover under layers of coats and scarves. Quickly I walked through the front doors and down the long crowded halls and made it to the back of the room before the first period bell rang. I chuckled to myself. This has been the first time in months when I came to school on time or came at all.
After my mother's suicide and my father walked out I was left with my older brother Dylan, his family, and a depression growing inside of my once happy self. The school had started noticing signs of depression and after watching me for a week they called my brother and got me to see a doctor which in return got me daily drugs and a twice a week visit to a counselor. The meds made me stressed. The stress made me anxious. The anxiety caused me to start skipping school. After weeks of calling my brother about my absences my teachers became so used to not seeing my in the back of the classroom that they stopped bothering to call. They stopped bothering to care. And so did I.
Every once in a great while I'll show up. Not because I care. Just because I know if I still go to school, I'm apart of something. It may not be good, but it keeps me from following in my mother's footsteps.
