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?
But the true nightmare began when my little brother Ryan, trying to offer me a granola bar, got severely burned by boiling water, and my mother, in a fit of rage, blamed me, assaulting me until I blacked out.
Instead of seeking help, my family chose to kidnap me from my hospital bed, dumping my severely injured body in a freezing, isolated shed, leaving me for dead, ensuring I would never be a "quitter" again.
They thought they had buried their problem, but they were about to discover that some truths refuse to stay buried, and some mothers' love turns into a terrifying form of vengeance.