I tried to kill myself when I was 11. I stopped just before I could put my head through the noose as I heard her foot steps outside my bedroom door. I was scared of her, even more than death. I couldn't bring myself to hang my body on the rope of the ceiling light in my room, I untied the knot as quickly as I could and returned everything back into its original position, wiping my tears as I pretended to be asleep when she came in. I was facing away from her, hiding my tear-soaked face when I heard her meddle with some stuff inside our shared room. She went away soon after getting her stuff. I cried myself to sleep that night. It's been years since I tried to hang myself, but I still think about it constantly. I regret not hanging myself that day. I could've died. I could've went to somewhere else than that miserable house I lived in. Things could have also changed if I lived, who knows?