It was in the Fall months of 2008, I was 13 years old sitting on my parents’s bathroom floor staring at my wrists with a razor blade in my hand, trying to gather the courage to release the bottled up pain by cutting into my adolescent skin. With a sigh, I wiped my tears and hid the razor back in my cupboard. I pulled down my sleeves and took a deep breath before exiting the bathroom. In the short walk to my bedroom (basically across the hall) I could hear my parents playing with my 6 year old brother and not even acknowledging me as I made my way back into my comfortable dungeon. I slammed the door a little harder than usual which resulted in complete silence in the house, then the laughs and teasing continued as they ignored my cry for help. I pulled my blue therapy binder from under my bed and began drawing the things I was seeing in my head. I drew pictures of clowns, evil teddy bears, my wandering mind came up with terrorizing pictures. When I look back on it now, it’s unbelievable. I can’t believe stigma had me so afraid that I had to put up with this internal torture ALONE. I knew something wasn’t right when I couldn’t feel happiness, even though I had everything anyone could wish for. Sure, I had manic episodes and good days where I thought things were great, but there were also days I dumped my full bottle of antidepressants into my mouth and didn’t have it in me to swallow. And so back then, little did I know that at 21, I would have survived a battle with myself and be ready to finally share my story with the world.
More to come.