I celebrated my 20th birthday two months ago. And one month ago I sat in front of a doctor and truly breathed for the first time in six years.
I am an adult now. Well, I am trying to be one. I cannot say whether if I had been this age when I first burnt myself if I would have been brave enough to tell someone. But one month ago, I was finally brave enough. And I was ready to scream a massive “fuck you” to the voices inside my head that had told me for so long that I was worthless—that I was nothing.
Some days I wish reaching this point was like some overdone, beautiful, heart-wrenching coming of age film where the angsty teen girl finds herself by going on a fantastical road trip and falling in love. But the truth is, mental illness is not that. It is not romantic. And my entire world had to collapse and crush my brittle bones before I made it to the here and now.
Every morning, I swallow a tiny, white pill. I drink a cup of tea. I go to the gym. I walk my dogs. I eat a plate full of fruit. I meditate. I try to laugh as much as possible, at the smallest of things. Sometimes I still let myself cry and stain my pillowcase with mascara.
And each day I am reminded that while conquering what has so long dragged me down and tormented every seam of my life is not easy, I am so much stronger than the scars on my wrist and the thoughts crawling behind my skull. Healing is a process—one that I was not meant to start until a little over thirty days ago. And though six years of suffering sounds like a lot and I used to wonder, if there is a God, why I had to hate myself so much before I commanded myself to just love being me.
The answer? When I stopped feeling ashamed of who I was—mental illness included—I could finally move on from the burning and the blades. When I realized there were millions of other humans experiencing the same unrelenting pain that I was who had summoned enough courage from within their broken hearts to ask for help, I too could begin to heal.
As I write this I am still scared. I am wondering if I should ask to be anonymous as to not frighten people when they realize that the scars they’ve been staring at on my body for years were born from my own hand. My heart is thumping, wondering if people will laugh at me when they understand why I am so quiet when I meet them or why I sometimes escape to the bathroom to cry while every one else my age drinks and smokes and glides effortlessly into the future.
But even though I am scared, I am strong. And I choose everyday to speak openly about my struggle in case someone who is hurting is listening. Because I want them to know that though they too may be frozen with fear, they are strong.
And we will get through life together.