I don’t believe my journey of life really started until I was fourteen. Of course I still was living from ages 0 to 13 but they were more of passing periods. Two minutes of running into people, getting lost, and dropping books.
The summer of fourteen. Week after week of pushing myself to do things I did not want to. Going out with those who had no intention of keeping me. Wearing clothes that made me feel like I was part of a show. Acting as if I was someone else. Clothing that was made for someone unlike me. At fourteen I was uncomfortable in my own skin. At fourteen I was as fake as a barbie doll. Balancing only on my tip toes.
Fourteen. An age in which I felt I started believing I was a sad story.
At fourteen I starting the process of becoming a woman. At fourteen I conformed into someone I was not. At fourteen I began to believe my high school life would be surrounded by a group of best friends, boys, and adventures. At fourteen I hung out with people who belittled me into becoming less of myself and becoming more like them. At fourteen I began seeing my body as a lump that no one would ever want. Then at fourteen I was diagnosed with chronic social anxiety and depression. At fourteen I thought that me being nervous was just a normal way of living.
The summer of fifteen. Week after week of telling people I was sick, I was busy, I was with my family. I did not want to party. I was too scared. The children there were so big. Everyone is loud. I don’t even know these people and the drinks taste like poison on my tongue. I did not want to hangout with people every single day of my life. At fifteen I felt all was too much. At fifteen I started losing balance. Balancing on one foot.
Fifteen. That’s it, I am a sad story. At fifteen the friends I thought would stay with me for a lifetime decided they did not want me, as if I was their toy. A toy in which they kept around but decided to throw out when they were finished. At fifteen they told everyone around them to not speak to me. They told lies about me so it looked like I was just another part of the hatred in the world. At fifteen everyone I had talked to, went away. At fifteen no one knew me as I was. At fifteen my anxiety got higher and higher. At fifteen I became that kid in class that wouldn’t speak, that wouldn’t want to sit in front. At fifteen I was the kid that people called, “weird” “loser” “emo.” At fifteen I could not bare to talk to more than two people in school. I stayed in my bubble until I felt as though everything was too much. At fifteen I decided I did not have anxiety. No. I told myself I was fine.
The summer of sixteen. Week after week I only stayed with my family. I did not want to see anyone. I did not want to go out near my house. I wanted to go far away. At sixteen I got so nervous to just sit outside, nervous to go on a walk. At sixteen I started losing the light. No balance to be found.
Sixteen. I am not just a sad story, I am a bad dream. At sixteen I began withering away. At sixteen I lost my aunt. At sixteen I lost my grandpa. At sixteen I lost one who I call cousin at only seven years old. I was lonely, sad. At sixteen I could not understand why I did not feel loved. At sixteen I doubted life. Why did people die when so many loved them? Why did I live, rather than one of them? I could not take it. At sixteen me, myself felt as though I was guilty. At sixteen I could not get out of bed. At sixteen I found that pain takes the numbness away. At sixteen I was put into a partial hospitalization program.
Seventeen. I am no sad story or bad dream. At seventeen I was discharged from the hospital. At seventeen I asked, “What’s next?” At seventeen I decided I was going to rise. I decided that as before my rising was not to an eternal life but of living on this earth. A rising in which only I can overcome with. At seventeen I realized the love that surrounded me. The hands and arms of my parents were there. At seventeen I found that I needed to start loving more. Loving of myself more. At seventeen the darkness started fading. The balance regaining.
I have gained beauty. It seeps through my veins, through my bloodstream. It slides into my bed each night and rises each morning. It is covered in lavender oil and sunflowers. The sun shining through my pores making each day become a new. Shining the light so others feel and see it too. I am no sad story. I am a story of love, I am a story of power. I am a story of light and strength. My journey has just begun. I will now not ever let it go. I will continue to rise just as sunflowers do to the sky.
Rise with me.
One thought on “The Rising of Me (and You)”
Wow wow wow! Just so powerful, brave and inspiring!