I am my mother. I am her ambition, her love, her loss. Sometimes I imagine a happier version of myself without her. Around my friends, I don’t feel so alone. The white walls in my room used to be emblematic of an insane asylum, a prison I could not break. My worldview was tainted by thoughts. At one point in time, I wanted to release myself from my mother. I wanted to leave for college and erase her existence. I wanted to forget the fact that she denied my feelings, even when I screamed like a newborn child. I wanted to forget the fact that I told her I wanted to kill myself and that she shunned me away, in fear that I would encourage my younger sister to do the same. Then I remember her sacrifice and broken hopes would be all for nothing. I am reminded of her family, of the fact that she was the only one to immigrate to America out of seven siblings. I remember how my mother told me she wanted to be a newscaster and not the manager of a dental office, but she knew she had to make money. Somehow our conversations are always mixed with blame, guilt and resentment. Her cautionary sense of love hits me like a ton of bricks. I think of my eldest sister who feels the same, and of my youngest sister I will leave behind. I remember being 14, pleading, begging for someone, anybody to help me. For the next two years, I spent nearly every other day crying, asking myself, “Why do it at all?”, and there were even times in my head when I would orchestrate my death. A stabbing in the shed, or jumping off a bridge: death would be more comfortable than sitting in my feelings. Even now writing about it, I am mortified by my thoughts. I remember thinking of my parents' horrified faces as they discovered my dead body. I remember how traumatized they would be. I remember the regret on my mother's face. My mother would finally acknowledge my pain if I was gone. There was not anything particularly unsatisfactory about my life, yet I hardly felt content. I remember begging my parents to find me a therapist, a doctor, anyone. I no longer just felt sad, I felt insane. My mother made me feel like a bad person, like somehow my suicidal tendencies were made up, and at times, I believed her. Despite the taboo around therapy, I went. I went despite my mother calling me crazy. I went despite the dollars trickling out of my parent’s pockets, stained with their blood, sweat and tears. I quit therapy because going was a challenge in itself; however, going allowed me to better understand myself. I have grown to see that parenting comes in different forms for everyone, and that for immigrant parents especially, it is immensely difficult to cross cultural borders. Although I understand that I have a lot more personal development to undergo, my white walls now make my room brighter. In getting to the ripe age of 17, I've understood that villainizing others does no good. I can also proudly say that I live every day with purpose, knowing that my time is limited. I also encourage others to do the same. If I had succumbed to my feelings during that time I never would have met some amazing people, had the opportunity to speak in front of 1,000 high schoolers, or graduated. I am eternally grateful that I believed in myself.