My suicide attempt should have been my rock bottom, a cry for help after surviving brutal sorority hazing.
Instead, when I woke up in the hospital, my mother, Debra, saw only weakness and an "embarrassing stain" on our family name.
She, with my uncles' eager help and my father' s silent complicity, dragged me home to what they called an "intervention"-a brutal "boot camp" in our garage that involved being tied in a stress position for hours without food or water.
Why couldn't they see my pain? Why did they insist on "fixing" me by breaking me even further?