Losing my mother in suicide when I was 18 was the utmost turning point of my life. She had given me a party on my 18th birthday, and more than a month later, she killed herself. When she started having seizure at 2 am of November 3, 1992, my father thought she was having a heart attack. My brother and I thought that she was putting an act again to scare us and get what she wanted (mainly to get my father’s apology – they had a fight that night and night before because of her unending jealousy). She was like that -- always manipulating her husband and her children by “When I die…” conversations and she always feigned illnesses. My father brought her to the hospital. My brother and I went back to sleep with a feeling of irritation. When I woke up at 8 am, I saw my father turning all the garbage cans upside down, looking for something. When I ask him what is it that he was looking at, he just shook his head. Minutes later, he sat down on a chair and told me that the doctors suspected that my mom overdosed herself, and that they need to know what kind of medicine she swallowed with beer. I don’t feel anything… maybe I was thinking that everything’s going to be okay and that she probably took just a little to make my dad suffer. At noon, on the way to the hospital, one of my aunts told us that my mother was not going to make it. That she was going to die and my father didn’t have any idea of the true situation. They were afraid of what my dad would do once he learned, afraid that he, too, would kill himself. So as the eldest of two siblings and the one of legal age, I make it my duty to shelter my father. My mother remained in the hospital for two and a half days. Imagine… just imagine what it felt to see her… lying in bed… with tubes in her nose and her mouth and needles in her flesh… all the while knowing that there’s no way in hell that she’s going to live another day without all those things attached to her body… and that my father didn’t have a clue. On the afternoon of November 5, 1992, my paternal relatives took my father away from the hospital. To where, I do not know. The doctor has been telling us to talk to our mom because even though she’s in a comma, she can still hear us. That last time I talked to her, I badmouthed her, I cursed her and told her to die and let us get on with our lives. After that, I signed the hospital waiver absolving the hospital of any responsibility for the release of my mother, while my brother, only 16, was crying, begging me not to sign the papers. I closed my ears. With steady hands, I signed my name. We got mom home. Three minutes after we laid her to bed, she was gone. And my father was not even there. I was calm. I even dyed her hair and clean her nails. No tears in my eyes when everyone around me was crying. Then, my father arrived. Crying, he kissed my mother on her lips (the first time I ever saw my parents kissed) and told her: “I don’t know what else to do. Now you can face Him (God, he meant), and ask him if I’ve ever been unfaithful to you.” That’s the first time I cried. On my mother’s wake, I cried twice. I don’t know why, but when I saw two people on two different nights (one was not even close to me), I just burst in tears. Then the burial came. I want to cry, even just for the sake of the people who were expecting me to cry, but I can’t no matter how I tried. February 15, 1995 was my first breakdown. When I learned that the youngest brother of my mother was dead, I just shrugged my shoulder and told my dad that it was his own doing. He was an irresponsible drunk even though he knew that he had hypertension, heart ailment and lung problems. I didn’t know that I hit home. He was found hanging on the ceiling, four-five hours dead. I dropped to my knees and for the first time in my life… I wailed! My father just hugged me, knowing that the pain is not for the uncle I don’t care much, but for the mother I loved and hated and loved and hated… May 13th of this year, the brother who found him hanging on the ceiling disappeared. His family has every reason to believe that he was going to commit suicide. He attempted once, only he was caught in time. May 14th, Sunday morning, he was found… floating in the river and dead. And the cycle begins again. All the grief and anguish comes rushing back. The feeling of wanting to kill myself grew stronger. Is it in the genes? Is it in me? I am afraid to end up like them… but there were times when the temptation was so strong I find myself almost in the edge of doing it. I have no one to turn to. My father refuses to talk about it. My brother dismisses my ill-feelings and tells me to pray for strength. My partner told me to forgive, let go and get on with my life (that easy…). But going on is different from getting by. Someone help me. I am falling, and as much as I am loved, there was no one at the bottom to catch me.