If you had asked me what I wanted to be yesterday, I would have said a writer.
But if you ask me today, I would say happy.
Ironically, the day when my life went from recovery to completely lost was Valentine's Day, 2016. And it was on this day that I stopped talking completely. And it is on this day that I am writing my story.
In August of 2014, the day of my older brother's birthday, my own mother took me and half of my siblings away from my father and stepmother, my two most favourite people in the world, and moved us out of my hometown in Salt Lake City, Utah, to Seattle Washington.
I cried for days.
I'm number four of eight children, and my mother took my away from my three older brothers - Drake, Jorge, and Josue - and my one year old sister who I love with more than all my heart, Athena. At first I was fine, happy to leave one of the most judgmental cities; but now it's one of the few things I wish I had back.
Until I met my stepfather.
No, he didn't "touch" me, he did something much worse. He sent me into a vile state of depression.
For a year, I was good. I was content, I was loud and cheerful, life was okay. I ignored the foreshadowing of this man that my mother married three months after meeting in Seattle and before I met. He seemed alright.
I remember the first time I cut my wrists like it was yesterday. It was late at night, and I was blaring "The Only Reason" by 5 Seconds of Summer on a loop through my headphones.
Just ten minutes ago, my stepdad called me a lost cause fat whore who will never go far in life. But that wasn't what hurt. What hurt was that my mother stood and watched him call me those things, and then yelled at me afterward.
But what I remember the most about that night late in my room I still share with my brother, on a pile of blankets instead of a mattress, was the feeling after I saw blood trickle down my pale skin.
It was a sickening feeling that infected my whole body, a feeling that I desperately wanted to get rid of. So I vowed never to harm myself again.
That lasted about two weeks.
When my mother saw my cuts, she called me a selfish bitch who only wants attention. Selfish she was right about. I was only hurting myself because after a year of mental torture, I couldn't hold it in any longer. When my stepdad came home, he punched me in the cheek, his wedding ring cutting my face. Then my mother said she would never take me to get help because I was a pussy and needed to take care of this problem on my own. She didn't take away my blades, she didn't give me a hug and try to help; she just sent me to my room and locked me in the rest of the weekend.
I guess by now I should say I'm a complete nut. I have OCD, Depression, Social Anxiety Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, and Schizophrenia.
I refuse to take pills, not wanting to OD because I don't want to die; I just want this awful pain to go away.
But my mother cared enough to take me to the doctor's, and now I'm on Lithium.
Which is some of the most dangerous stuff in the world so please, if you need medication, do not get Lithium. It makes your life worse. It took away my appetite. I don't eat anymore. It took away my soul. I don't feel anymore. It took away my life. I'm dead inside.
Then I started high school.
Which let me tell you, is the most wonderful thing in my life. Sure, I don't have friends I could trust enough with this kind of stuff, but I have Drama Club, which holds me from 1:30-7PM everyday. I enjoyed never being home. I enjoyed hanging out with people a lot like me.
For once I could honestly say I was truly happy.
I ended up finding a boy who loved me so much that when he saw my cuts, he didn't yell at me. But he did call me selfish. He told me that he would do anything to make sure I get better and that these scars are not "beautiful". They were ugly, and not something that I should have permanently etched into my skin.
He was the start of something so wonderful. I was happy. My Social Anxiety was a thing of the past. I didn't take my Lithium pills anymore. I didn't need them. I went from 15 to 6 on the Depression Scale. I didn't have nightmares or let things like my family get to me. I didn't cry myself to sleep. I was truly happy. I was six months clean.
Then he left.
Since then I've been working hard to keep happy without him, and it worked for three months. I felt completely wonderful for being able to control my happiness and feel good again.
Until Valentine's Day.
I can't say what happened, I'll probably cry all over the keys of my computer. But I can say that one little thing, one little act, one little word, killed me. I've stopped talking. Thankfully, I knew enough to never self-harm again. And I'm going to keep that promise to myself. But something words are worth more than actions and pictures. And we have to be strong enough to know they aren't true. I wish I was. I wish the world hadn't given up on me and I wish I didn't feel like I didn't deserve to talk. But what I can do is this:
If you want to be happy, you need to believe you can. Don't rely on anyone else to make you happy, because they will never be with you until your dying day. But some of us can mean the difference between life or death, and we ourselves need to pick out the bad and think of the good. Don't self-harm please. Once it's done, that sickening feeling doesn't go away. It lays low for awhile, then bubbles back up again. I can't promise that it'll get better, but I can promise that no matter how many times you lose the battles, you will always win the war. You don't need other people to make you feel happy. Other people can help you get there, like my boyfriend, but only you can maintain the happiness. I can't lie and say that I don't need a hug once in awhile, because I do. Everyday, I need a hug from my late boyfriend but I can't. He taught me to feel happy, and I hope that my story, taught you to feel happy too.
All The Love,
S.
