Maybe you still can’t talk about it. Maybe, though it happened months ago and everyone expects you to be over it by now, you still can’t think of their name or smell a certain scent in passing without being thrown into a bottomless spiral of panic and fear. Maybe you’re so fed up with bottling the weight of it up inside of you, but yet you just can’t figure out how to let it go. Or maybe you’ve grown past the trauma of it all, but are still struggling to rebuild your life.
I see you, but more importantly, I am you.
I’m hesitant to talk about my past online knowing the whole world can read it with one click of a button. The idea of having an active audience is terrifying. It’s not like I fear for my safety or anything of serious nature, but I admit that it’s hard to be vulnerable, especially regarding subjects that I can barely talk to my real-life friends about. Sharing personal stories can be emotionally taxing, and when these stories of struggle and darkness are placed on a pedestal for anyone to access, the terror is only multiplied.
What will they think of me, now that they know this much about me?
But I’m choosing to speak up today for the girls who want to but don’t know how. Or the ones who will, but just need the extra push to do so.
On the outside, I’m lots of things: a writer, an ex-dancer, an indie music enthusiast, a daughter who loves her family more than she could ever begin to describe. I’m an artist, a girl who bakes endlessly just for fun (sometimes, as a means of procrastinating homework), and a cat mom to the fattest cat who ever lived (probably not true, but I’m claiming the title anyway). I’m a real collage of a person who can’t be summed up with these titles alone. I’m not saying that to brag; you are equally as unique. We’re all puzzles put together by individual pieces.
But underneath the exterior that I spend so much time trying to perfect, I’m someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not faking happy anymore. I’m past that stage of my life, though at one point I thought it’d last forever. What I’m saying is that, much like the cliche saying goes, you can’t judge a book by its cover. Cheesy, I know, but it’s true beyond words.
Beneath the surface, I’m still a fragile girl, healing from hurt that still feels raw sometimes. Life hasn’t always dealt me a fair share of cards, and I’m finally strong enough to admit that now. I’ve struggled with my mental health for what feels like a lifetime, but it wasn’t until college that I decided to seek the help that I needed to merely survive my first year. I’ve also been in relationships that continued to take away my dignity, wearing me down to the bone until I couldn’t recognize myself anymore. I’ve learned that sometimes, attention can masquerade as love. Desiring validation from others is a natural human feeling, but when someone claims that you are perfect and wonderful yet abuses your heart and your capacity to use it, that is so far from love and I urge you to run from it as fast as possible.
There were nights, even in my recent memory, where I thought I wouldn’t make it until morning. When I turned 19 last November, I remember standing there, filled with utter shock and impossibility. The past year had been so grueling and unfair that turning over a new leaf and blowing out 19 wax candles hardly felt like a feasible option. It was the lowest of lows, being taken surprise by my own birthday, and every day I am grateful I am no longer there, not knowing what to do with a whole new year at the tips of my fingers.
So much has changed since then. I’ve turned to therapy, medication, and quality friendships to sustain me through my heavy seasons. I’ve cut necessary ties, burned bridges, and learned to practice forgiveness even though it’s hard. I want to hate the one who stole my youth from me. There’s a side of me that wants to take revenge, to grab him by the shoulders and ask, “Why? Why me? Why did you choose me as a target? Could you not tell that I was already weak, or was that the whole point?”
Maybe I’ll never get the answers to these questions. Maybe they’ll always exist in my head, suspended in the air with no chance of ever reaching the ground. Maybe I’ll never get the sincere apology I’m starved for, and maybe I’ll never get all of that time back, all of the days I spent regretting that I had ever believed him at all, that I ever trusted his intentions.
But I’m learning, as we speak, that it’s OK to not have the answers. As frustrating as it is, sometimes we never get the closure we crave and we are forced to walk around with our wounds until they scar. Sometimes forgiveness feels hollow, unreachable, and forced. Just because it’s over doesn’t mean it’s no longer real, or that it doesn’t ache. Over doesn’t really mean over. Sometimes it just means it’s time to start figuring out how to heal.
Here’s to you. You are resilient beyond measure, and even though I’ve never met you personally, that is something that holds its truth no matter what. Your value is unconditional and doesn’t decrease based on one person’s inability to grasp it. It’s not for them anyway, it’s yours. Your value to this world is entirely yours, and no matter how hard someone tries to steal it for themselves, it is ultimately fruitless. You are valuable because you are here, because you’re the only you that has ever been and will ever be, and because without you, there’d be no one to complete your puzzle. This world needs your puzzle. You are here by design, and I hope that you can see that, but if not, that you will be able to soon.
You don’t heal overnight. None of us do, and there’s no shame in that. One of the most incredible things about being human is that we are creatures of endless regeneration. We are constantly being recycled and reborn, little by little, down to our cells and our stories. We never stay the same for long; instead, we are always shedding, being made new again, and given another chance to rebuild ourselves.
Stick to your guns, your girls, and your gut. You are braver every moment by choosing to be you. I hope you always choose that girl before anyone else– she’s the only one who will ever have the privilege of being yours.
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