A Testament

My last suicide attempt was March of my sophomore year of high school; I was fifteen. I overdosed on pills; it didn't work. I just remember cleaning up my own rancid mustard colored stomach bile off the toilet and walls in the morning. But you wouldn't know that, looking at me; none of my three attempts left visual scars. The self-harm already began that narrative long ago.

I've been cutting since I was thirteen; I stopped for almost three years following that last attempt, but I've relapsed since then a few times. The stopped fading. The scars, on my left wrist in particular, are here to stay, a testament to the lost battles of an on-going war with my depression, anxiety, other mental health issues.

I'm not ashamed of my scars, nor have I ever attempted to hide them, because the story behind these scars are the story of me, moments and emotions and trauma that shaped me into who I am today. And we should talk about these things. That's why I started a mental health organization in my high school, that's why I am a psychology major. I want to speak up, end the stigma, scream to the world that we are out there and that our battle scars are not a source of shame.

By all measures, I should not be here; I should have died in that early morning in March, but I didn't. And having lost my will to die, I wondered what then, why I was still there. Maybe...I went through all this, I am going through all this so I can help prevent others from tumbling them down the same road, help others climb out of their ditches and help them find themselves beyond their scars whether they be physical and/or mental.

I do not need to be cured, for I do not have a disease. I am not defined by these scars, but I also want others to know that they are there, that I went through so much, but I've grown so much more since then, that there is hope and recovery is a long AF journey and sometimes we find dead ends and need to turn around and find our own paths.

May you find your way, wherever your road takes you.