An everyday decision takes an average person about 10 minutes to decide. Decisions are predicted by brain activity before they are made consciously. And according to research, your brain may take up to 10 seconds before you realize it.

Elise probably decided to kill herself within those ten seconds that day—the day I stood there watching her corpse dangling from the ceiling fan, itching like a worm, seconds before she breathed the life out of her. And it probably took me at least ten seconds to grasp and process what was going on.

It was either fight, flight, or freeze for me at the time, and I just froze. Most people don't believe it, especially those who were (and possibly still consider themselves to be) friends with my sister. Even mom didn't believe me. In those moments, I recall shivering and looking blankly at my sister's lifeless body. Everything seemed like they froze at that point or everything else slowed down.

I remember staring at mom and feeling nothing. I didn't feel anything when I peered into her eyes but I remember the way she stared at me, with her eyes prickling with tears as she moved her mouth, and hearing nothing. I remember dad panicked and dialing 911 on his phone while his other hand stroked his temples. I recall mom sobbing on the floor. The remainder of it just flashed in front of my eyes. When the ambulance came to our house, we rushed Elise to the hospital. As Elise was taken into the emergency room, Mom and Dad ran alongside the nurses and doctors. Me, standing there, waiting for them in the hospital, and still feeling nothing.

I watched as the doctors leave the emergency room, two of them approached mom and dad, one with his head bowed and the other gazing at my mother, mumbling the words, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

When the three of us returned home from the hospital, Mom never left their bedroom for days. She cried most nights, and in several instances, I would watch her sleep in my sister's room. I knew that Dad did his best to support what was left of us, but I would occasionally hear him cry in the middle of the night as he poured himself a glass of Lagavulin 16-Year-Old Scotch Whisky, something to drown his voiceless feelings filled with regret and blame.

After we held a memorial service for Elise at which almost every student in our school, including the teachers had attended, I remember several people approaching me and apologizing for our loss and the things they lacked as a friend or an acquaintance of my sister's; telling me things such as they could've done something or more, could've seen some signs, could've... would've... should've... words that mirrored the deepest part of myself.

I remember Dad being concerned that I might be going through something similar with Elise. I overheard Mom and Dad discussing late one night, practically arguing, before coming to terms to let me see a psychiatrist--to talk about my feelings and what I'm going through or have gone through since witnessing Elise kill herself in front of me was such "a traumatic experience" dad said.

I know deep down that I'm handling things better than my mom and that she, not I, needs to visit a psychiatrist. However, I promised both of them that I would consult with a professional and that I would also consult with them.

Months passed, and I began to feel a little better. I would occasionally see things or hear voices down the hall from Elise's room. I would, every once in a while, hear her voice calling and telling me things. I nearly believed she was haunting me for not helping her live. I informed my psychiatrist, and he prescribed me with Risperidone, a medication used to treat schizophrenia and bipolar disorder.

It helped alleviate what he called "psychotic episodes" that I had. Until my birthday came, which was four months later. That day, I saw mom finally smile again, and dad couldn't have been happier and more grateful that day.

Mom was so excited that day and baked me a two-layered red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting, telling me, "It's your favorite cake."

Dad and I exchanged looks. I watch as the gloom overcame dad's face as he stared down at his dinner plate and that smile on mom's face when she lit the candles on the birthday cake that she made for me, telling me to make a wish before blowing the flames out.

Then, I told her, "This is Elise's favorite cake."

After that, her smile diminished. I wanted to thank her, regardless of the confusion but there was this frustrated expression on my mom's face that night that made me go silent. She sank back in her chair and aggressively tossed the kitchen towel on the dinner table. I couldn't tell if she was angry at me for being ungrateful for the time that she spent baking the cake or if she was disappointed in herself.

Mom began to cry and apologized. Dad then walked her back into their bedroom, leaving me in the dining room for a few moments. In those silent moments, I blamed myself for not being enough for mom. I felt angry with myself for not being there for Elise when she was suffering all by herself silently. I was angry with myself for doing nothing that day.

"I'm sorry about tonight, love," Dad said as he grabbed the plates on the dinner table and brought them to the sink I took the cake and placed it back in the fridge. As dad scrubbed and rinsed the dishes, I leaned against the kitchen island, gazing down at my feet.

I shrugged, "I'm sorry for not being there for Elise," I told him. Tilting up my head, I looked at dad as he turned his head at me, flashing me a small smile on his face.

"You don't have to be sorry," He told me, "I wasn't there for your sister, either."

The room was deafeningly quiet. Then, I hear the plates and cutlery on the sink snapping me out of my train of thought. Before Dad and I said our goodnights to each other, he gave me a warm hug, one I thought I'd never need, but it was all I'd ever needed to feel my feelings, and broke down into tears.

He calmed me down and stroked my hair, assuring me that he loves me and that I should never blame myself for anything that has occurred because none of us wanted this in the first place.

I felt like a child again as Dad escorted me to my room and tucked me into my bed. A sudden flashback occurred of Elise and me resting next to each other on the bed we shared as kids as dad reads us a bedtime story about a small boy who loves the star but then dies because he becomes sick.

Dad kissed me on the forehead before turning off the lights and leaving.

My throat was dry and painful when I awoke in the middle of the night. It felt like every breath of air dehydrates me further. I had a discomfort in the back of my head that threatened to turn into a severe migraine, and I knew it was a clear indicator that dehydration was approaching, so I got up to quench my thirst.

I started hearing voices that came from the living room, but there was no one there when I went to investigate. I rubbed my eyes, thinking it was most likely another psychotic episode until I remembered I had forgotten to take risperidone before sleeping.

Dad kept the medicines stored in their room. I never questioned why he didn't tell mom or me where it was since I assumed he felt I might take too many drugs and overdose myself. As I rushed up the stairs to their room and before entering, I knocked, as I carefully twist the doorknob, and push the door open.

"Dad, I need my pills," I said as I approached their bed and shook his arm. I supposed he was already fast asleep, exhausted by the events of the evening. I shook his arm once more, then watched it dangle limply from the bedspread, and noticed some blood.

I pulled the blankets, worried, and discovered a large, long slit on both of my mom's arms. When I stared at my dad, I noticed blood on his stomach. This time, it was a fight response. I contacted 911 right away. After then, everything became a series of flashes. Moments in time, almost the same as when Elise died. From the hospital to the emergency room, to the doctors and nurses racing in and out of the room, to the doctors apologizing for yet another loss on my side; I've been through it all again.

I was alone until Clarissa and Zania arrived and got me out of there. Zania's arms wrapped around my frail body, yearning to die, only wishing to reach where they are now. Zania's sweet, quiet tones soothed me as I cried myself to sleep on the journey to a new place that I never imagined I'd be able to call my new home.

I opened my eyes and met the stars that only shined when the lights were out. I feel as If I am floating on a murky sea right now while the waves begin to wash me up to the shore. It's almost as if I am standing on a cloud, and my emotions are on that cloud. I feel so light-headed, and my body shuts down slowly, but there is this magnetic energy that keeps me alive, dragging me to another train of thought as it is embraced by my whole being, with it all being foreign to me.

However, I am not unfamiliar with this kind of feeling because that is what I normally feel. With my line of thinking, I let myself get confused, and it's like it's taking me to another realm that's actually out of this universe. A dimension that possibly doesn't exist but resides only inside my head.

Much of me would like to dive further, but there is still a part of me that is afraid to do so. I dread the idea of being trapped in my head, diving further into the chaos that has yet to happen in the long term.

Apart from that, I found a way to be grateful since Clarissa and Zania had never left my side since the day my parents left me too. In terms of life and other matters, things have only gotten worse for me. The voices were almost deafening to the point I couldn't sleep anymore. They talked in soft tones, more like a whisper. They multiplied. They are the kind of voices that echo to your ear, like watching a TV that only produces a static noise and displays static images. Once you think about it, they are the type that scares you and gives you the chills. The voices were rising like a thunderstorm.

Clarissa, on the other hand, suggested I should keep seeing my psychiatrist. That's when we discovered I didn't just have anxiety and depression, but also schizophrenia.

"Kids. Breakfast!"

I immediately paused the play button on my phone and went down the stairs when I heard Clarissa calling us for breakfast.

"Have you thought about that mental health camp for young adults?" Clarissa says, looking at the monitor of her laptop, "I sent you the link on iMessage. Have you not checked the website?"

Clarissa removes her reading glasses as she looks at me. She grabs her white mug that reads: blow me, I'm hot.

I remember Zania getting her that for Christmas, and instead of Clarissa getting mad at her for buying her a mug with an inappropriate line, she thanked her daughter for getting her the best mug she could ever receive.

"I don't think camps are for Lauren," she says as I nod my head in silence, slicing myself a piece of waffle.

I roll my eyes over the voice inside my head.

"I mean, no offense, but..." Zania says as I continuously nod my head as I shove a piece of waffle in my mouth, "Look at her. She wouldn't even survive a minute in there."

Clarissa nearly spits her coffee, "Offense is taken," I say.

"Why don't you give it a try, Lauren?" Clarissa says as she looks at me.

I chew slowly on the waffle, savoring the flavor while still thinking of what to say that would convince her to stop sending me to any form of therapy. I'm fine with my one-on-one therapy with Dr. Gregory, even though his voice makes me want to fall asleep every session.

"I agree with Zania on this one," I told her, "I just don't think I'm fit to meet people just yet."

"How would you know that if you don't give it a try?" Clarissa says.

"Mom," Zania says, "You know that Lauren still won't go out. Why bother forcing her now when we constantly failed over the last eight months?"

I have had a series of psychotic episodes, and the scary thing about them is that it mostly occurs when I'm alone, leaving me to suffer as it surrounds me without anyone to help me get out of the process.

It's just worse when I get triggered by something I hate because the last time I lost control of myself was when I had a psychotic episode, which was almost nine months ago, while I was out in public. It was uncomfortable because people were terrified of me; they were looking at me—watching me as if I were slowly turning into a zombie.

"I don't want to do it," I say as I stood up from the dining chair, grabbing my plate along with me as I enter the kitchen. I placed it on the sink and poured myself a glass of water.

I walk back to the dining area as Zania and Clarissa look at me. I placed a hand on my waist as I say, "I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me, Clarissa. Everything is still okay."

I rolled my eyes as Clarissa frowns. I walk towards her, giving her a peck on the cheek, and gave her a reassuring smile. She rolls her eyes at me and then smiles.

"Okay," she says as she sighs along.

I placed the empty glass on the dining table and left the area.

I was given a larger dosage of medications by my psychiatrist, but I stopped taking them a month ago. No one else knew but me and the voices inside my head. I wanted to try and live without them. I didn't want to get to the point where I relied on them as if I'd die without them (which there could be a possibility that I might), but the strange thing is that I found comfort in those voices. I've had them for two years and have gradually found a place to sit well with them. Those voices, strange as they may appear, remind me why I am still living.

As I returned to my room upstairs, I took my phone off the nightstand and pushed the play button to continue listening to music while staring at the ceiling at the stars that always kept me company even on the darkest of nights.

If there is a faster, easy yet temporary way to be happy without lying to myself about what I feel is that listening to music will quickly sail my sadness away. Even for just three minutes. Even for just an hour.