The Me That I Was

Growing up, I never questioned who I was or where I’d end up.

Childhood optimism had no room for doubt or worry.

After all, roadblocks and plot twists only belonged in books.

My path was bright, my future clear.

I was diagnosed with depression at age 12.

Suddenly, my future didn’t seem so certain.

Without the saving grace of childhood innocence, the me, that I am today, can’t ignore the “ifs”.

“I will succeed.” Maybe.

“I will be happy.” Hopefully.

The me who I am today takes notes, carefully detailing the context of my life. As if somehow a strategic history of my past could change the future. That maybe through study and careful understanding, I might find a way out.

When I was 12 I couldn’t stop crying.

By 13, the tears gave way to violent breakdowns.

At 14, I was numb

At 15, I wanted nothing more than to feel again.

At 16 I found a way to feel.

I was 18 when I stopped.

It’s in my moments of sanity my inner romantic screams out,

“this isn’t all just a fluke, a freak accident,

when you forget your future and struggle to continue on just remember that your very existence is proof that you belong

The state of the chemicals in your brain does not make you less of a person. It’s a side effect of a society that refuses to acknowledge an epidemic, a society that refuses to understand.

When we refuse to be silent, others are forced to hear. In the comfort of illusions nothing will every change.”

I’m not just fighting for myself, I’m fighting for others like me.

That they not only find the courage to get help, but the inspiration to fight, and the belief that they will be victorious.

I fight to give a voice to the me that I was.

It’s okay to not be okay.

It’s okay to ask for help.