The thought of killing myself was not a common occurrence. Perhaps it only appeared in my mind, during long car rides or late nights tossing and turning in bed, a select number of times – five at most. It wasn't that I wanted to die, necessarily. It's that I no longer wanted to live. I didn't want to deal with the internal pain that I endured on a daily basis. It all became too much for me and I couldn't handle it. Ending my life seemed like an easy way out. But a thought it remained, as I never acted upon it. Five times, at most. That was the extent to which I ever thought about it.

When I was a little girl my father used to tell me that if I wished upon enough shooting stars, perhaps I'd become one. I would laugh and say, "But I don't want to fall out of the sky!" He'd smile, brush the hair out of my eyes, and say, "perhaps falling isn't always a bad thing, Reign."

Reign. The name that my parents chose to label me with at birth. If I'm being completely honest with you, I used to hate my name. The kids in my class would tease me, chanting things like, "rain rain, go away, come back another day." I'd sulk in the corner, giving up reluctantly after trying to explain that I wasn't rain – I was Reign. But kids don't know the difference. I barely even knew the difference. And thus, I came to despise my own name. It left a bad taste in my mouth, a negative connotation attached to it. Every time that someone said my name, it reminded me of being teased by the other children.