So basically I was 16 when I was raped. I was celebrating my 16th birthday by hosting a pool party at my friend's house. Everyone from school came and we all got drunk and wild. I remember talking to him before I went into my friend's house to use the bathroom. I felt his gaze linger on me until I felt a harsh tug against my dress. He turned me around and started to make-out with me. Not gonna lie, I quite enjoyed it. I wasn't ready to have sex yet, so I only wanted to probably make-out and end the party then and there, but he had different plans. My friend's bed was right beside her bathroom, and he did not waste any time to fling my body onto the bed and get on top of me. Me being naive and drunk didn't resist until he pulled down my pants. I finally got to my senses and pleaded him to stop and leave. He didn't answer and continued to strip me off my clothes. He fingered me first which was quite painful and I passed out due to the shock. Minutes later, I woke up with him shoving himself inside me and my whole body convulsing in pain. I cried stop but he continued even harder until he was finished. I started to cry even more which scared him enough to leave the room with his belongings. My friend found me a few hours later on her bed and I told her what happened. We both cried ourselves to sleep and the next morning the pain was excruciating. I couldn't muster the courage to tell my parents and only my close friend knows about this. He still walks in the hallway but we never make eye contact. I plan to switch schools which would hopefully ease the pain of the aftermath.

​

My dad is abusive. Since I was a young child he has been abusive to myself and my mother, my sister getting his good side. Today my mom told me something about when I was a young child. We had to go live with my uncle because my dad had thrown boiling water on my mom and tried to kill her, and the next day I had to go do a carol service at school. I had no clothes and while everyone came in their beautiful costumes I came in a white tshirt with holes. My dad’s brothers (my uncles) are all the same. They all have a child that they pick on and abuse and the same goes for their wives. My one aunt has had to go on cancer treatment for the illness caused by the emotional abuse my uncle has given her. I want to do something to stop them, to bring justice to my family, but I know the only way that will ever happen is they go to jail. I wish I knew how to fix this.

​

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, that I didn’t believe her. I sat back and I watched her wonderful spark fade. I sat there and I watched as her eyes dulled, her tears evaporated, and her smile stiffened. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything, I didn’t say stop, I didn’t even show her any understanding. I just let the hurt wrap around her, like a shameful blanket smothering her efforts to speak out. I let her down, I let her lose hope. I allowed her to lose her sanity and I watched her continue to mask her despair and apparent loneliness. I began to question myself, there had to be a reason why I was so unwilling to help her. She must deserve it, right? These things do not happen to the innocent. Girls who live a good life are treated well. She really must be a complete bitch, just like he says she is. I’m not 100% convinced yet though, she has always been kind to me in the past, but I suppose you never really know someone’s true colours. I saw her again today and I watched her with him. It can’t be as bad as she makes it out to be. She clearly eats! He doesn’t let her starve, that’s for sure. If anything, she perhaps could do with eating a bit less, he has warned her, that she is getting tubby. Maybe she should feel ashamed of the way she looks, after all, he is so handsome and charming. He is looking out for her when he tells her to watch what she is eating. It’s a kindness. Wow, she really must be crazy. He told me today that she is nuts and she makes up situations in her head and tries to blame him. Maybe he is the real victim here. He seems a lot more convincing than she does. He is so articulate and able to express himself clearly, while she is just a blubbering mess most of the time, she does not make any sense. I want to laugh at her sometimes, with him, she is bonkers. Ok, I’m starting to feel sorry for him now. He really does put up with so much of her shit. She is so controlling, she asks him so many questions. He is so patient when he answers her and then she has the nerve to say he told her something different earlier. Why is she asking him the same question again then? She is mental! She has even started refusing to leave the flat, he says she will not go anywhere unless he goes with her. Like she’s scared of him cheating, so he told me. Although, by the sound of it, this all stems from her guilty conscience. Last week, on her way back from lecture, he saw her flirting with another guy. She of course denied it all, he had to tell her several times, that he saw her with his own eyes. She eventually apologised and said it would never happen again. She really is a nightmare. He’s had to start monitoring the way she dresses. She is such a tart. She wanted to go out with a face full of makeup and a short skirt the other night. He told her straight, you look like a cheap tart. He said that nobody would want to see her make a fool of herself. She eventually got changed into something more respectable and toned down the make-up. She probably wanted other men to look at her, she seems to like the attention. She’s lucky to have him, most men would have run a mile by now. I don’t know how she dares! She tried to tell me a pack of nasty lies today. She showed me some bruises on her thighs and some red marks too. She had clearly done them to herself for attention. He had already warned me that she was crazy enough to make stuff up. I was a bit scared that she was going to freak out on me. He told me in confidence, that he once had to physically restrain her for her own safety, that’s why she had read marks on her wrists once. She is properly deluded. He is a total saint. I’ve completely stopped listening to her now. He was right all along, she just needed a bit of guidance in how to behave in front of people. There has been a significant improvement in her behaviour. She seems much less mental now. She has stopped making things up, she’s dressing in clothes that cover up her flaws and she is so much quieter now. She never causes a stir, she just needed to stop attention seeking. He said, as soon as people stop giving her attention, she will calm down and realise that she doesn’t need attention from others, she has everything she needs from him. So, she kept her mouth shut, she dressed how he liked her to dress. She got fatter, she stopped wearing make-up. She stopped going out with her inappropriate friends, they found her boring now she was in a relationship now anyway. She closed herself off from the world, she stopped going back home to visit her family, she accepted it was not cost effective. He continued to fuel her, until one day the light finally ran out of gas and he was left in darkness. Once again, I started to feel sorry for not believing her. I felt a dull ache inside, I think it was guilt from not standing up for her. I felt stupid, that I had been fooled by a false sincerity and that I had abandoned the woman stood looking back at me in the mirror. I saw her dulled eyes staring back at me and I knew that I was wrong to have believed she was mental. I looked at her stiffened smile and felt her blanket of shame start to suffocate and smother me. I’d trusted the wrong person. I looked down at the body I had been conditioned to hate. I touched my thighs, that were once bruised and burned. I felt disgust. Even though I was free of that human prison cell, I was not yet free from the shackles in my mind. The ones that held me back and stopped me from trusting. The torture chamber in my head that would not allow me to make a decision without first, looking for approval or permission from someone else, who I believed to be better qualified or smarter than me. I now look at me. I do not know who I am yet. I have lots of jigsaw pieces. I am a mother, wife, daughter, teacher, survivor. I am all those things, but I am also many more I am brave, I am compassionate, and I am strong. I am a person who deserves to live in peace. So, I will.

​

​Entering my freshmen year of High School, I felt an overwhelming pressure to be skinny. What started as a small thought that crossed my brain - needing to lose some weight - turned into two years of anorexia and complete misery. The summer leading up to freshmen year is when it all began. I started working out for hours at a time. I slowly cut my calories down more and more every day, counting them religiously, never failing to forget even one chip. All day long, all I could think about was how overweight I was (even though I was only 120 pounds). I would look into the mirror and feed myself lies- If I wasn’t skinny, no one would like me. If I didn’t have the perfect body, no guy would ever find me attractive. If I was even slightly chubby, I was worthless. Naturally, my weight began to plummet. At the start of freshmen year, I was playing volleyball and basketball, both of which required intense daily workouts. On top of that, I was working out alone, sometimes running 6-8 miles at a time. Given this insane workout regiment, I should have been in-taking about 2,200-2,400 calories a day. I was eating no more than 700 calories every day. If I went even 20 calories over this limit, I would berate myself for hours, sometimes even resorting to self harm. Not only were these patterns consuming and destroying my physical and mental health, but they were also wreaking havoc on my social and family life. To avoid any situations with food, I entirely stopped hanging out with my friends outside of school. I spent all of my free time in solitude, becoming extremely lonely and depressed. Because I didn’t see my eating disorder as a mental health issue, I did not confide in anyone about my slow deterioration. However, my family realized what was happening and became worried sick. Every single day, I would have raging, yelling fights with my parents. They wanted me to eat more or go see a therapist and I screamed rejection at both ideas. It tore my family apart and created a constant tension, especially regarding the topic of food. I would cry myself to sleep almost every night. Over the course of two years, as I continued to whither into nothing, I consistently had to go to the doctor to get blood work done, for I was deficient in everything. Two years before, I was full of life, joy, and energy. Now, I didn’t even recognize myself. I was constantly lethargic, pessimistic, irritable, and depressed. But, I would tell myself, at least I was 5’5’’ and 90 pounds. It wasn’t until a day during my Sophomore year of high school, when I was laying on the floor doing my daily 20-minute ab workout, that I reached my breaking point. As I laid on the floor with a sports bra on, my mom walked in and immediately broke into sobs. My hip bones were protruding more than they ever had, out of what was left of my body. I vividly remember my mom saying through tears, “I am so afraid you are going to disappear into thin air”. She was afraid I was going to die. To starve myself to death. And, honestly, so was I. And all for what? To be stick thin? Suddenly, it all seemed so absurd. It seemed insane that I would sacrifice my friends, my family, my joy, my peace, my experiences, my entire life- all just to fit inside of those size 0 jeans. That day changed a lot for me. While the journey to recovery was a long, difficult one, it all began on that day when my mother had to fear for her daughter’s dwindling life. Every day after that, I got a little better. Slowly raising my caloric intake, I slowly let go of my fear of food. I gave my body some rest. And I watched my life transform. I learned that food can be used as fuel. That our bodies can do amazing things for us when we take care of them. I realized that it is so much more attractive to be fit, healthy, happy, and strong, than it is to be skinny, grumpy, weak, and depressed. Most importantly, I learned to love myself. Flash forward four years, and I am incredibly grateful for everything my eating disorder taught me. Since having anorexia, I developed an unbridled passion for nutrition and healthy living. I now take care of my body by listening to it, feeding it the nutrients it needs to thrive, doing workouts that make me feel good and energized, splurging on dark chocolate when I want to, and looking in the mirror with thoughts of love, appreciation, and grace. Through doing so, I have been able to focus more of my energy on being optimistic, hanging out with friends, and pursuing my dreams. I now have a zeal for promoting and helping others achieve self love and body confidence.

​I’m not supposed to be anxious. I’m a straight A student, an elite athlete, and a happy kid. To me, anxiety was for people with hard home lives or depression. I never dreamed that this could happen to me. Until it did. 

My anxiety began on a plane ride to San Francisco for a family vacation. My chest felt tight, and my breathing quickened. I remember leaning to my dad and telling him I couldn’t breathe. I was 12 years old. Since that day, I have suffered upwards of 200 panic attacks. 

My panic attacks may have been caused by different things, but they were almost always the same. My breathing would get quick, my chest would heave in and out, and I could feel my pulse racing in my head. I would scream that I couldn’t breathe and often run around my house like a chicken with its head cut off. My body would tremble and shake as I calmed back down. My dad would get angry, telling me to pull myself together, but he was scared and didn’t understand. My mom would hold me and tell me everything would be okay, because she knew exactly what I was experiencing. My panic attacks were, for lack of a better term, “textbook”. 

To make matters worse, I began to feel a huge lump in my throat when eating. I began obsessing over my health, inventing new and worse cancers and diseases that I could have. After experiencing that for a couple months, I finally went to the doctor. Turns out, I have a vocal chord dysfunction. This causes breathing to quicken and for eating to be difficult, which is not the best situation for any anxious person, especially a hypochondriac like myself. I began to obsess over my throat and my breathing. I would constantly pull my shirt collar away from my neck because I felt choked. I couldn’t eat, which was almost debilitating due to my athletic lifestyle. In the months after my diagnosis, I lost close to 15 pounds. My eating was so bad, that it took me two hours to eat a single sausage patty. I felt like my life was slipping through my fingers like sand. 

It took some tough love from my parents to realize that something had to change. My father threatened to pull me out of basketball because my body couldn’t handle the constant blowing and going of elite sports anymore. I caught my mother crying to my father that she didn’t want me to suffer anymore and that she felt helpless. So, like the student I am, I picked up a book. 

I began researching anxiety and OCD and all sorts of mental illnesses. I learned about the cortex and the amygdala and how they played a part in my anxiety. I started developing coping mechanisms and breathing exercises. I figured that as long as I could understand that anxiety wasn’t just me being crazy, I would be okay. I also researched medicines and relaxation techniques and ways to help alleviate my panic. I started seeing a speech pathologist for my vocal chord dysfunction and finally, I found a psychiatrist who spoke to me about my issues and gave me medicine to help. 

Now, I am nearly a month on medication, and feeling better than I have in 4 years. I haven’t panicked in weeks, and my days are no longer spent constantly worrying about my health. I’ve started enjoying food again, and am actually appreciating the little victories in life. I have gained 10 pounds, and am continuing to gain muscle for basketball that I didn’t think was possible.

That’s not to say that my story is over. I still have trouble eating sometimes, and I still work through anxiety every day, but I want people my age to know that it does get better. I want to tell people who are suffering like me that anxiety does not define you, but how you handle it does. I want to teach others about the neuroscience and psychology behind their illnesses, to offer them a new perspective. But most of all, if I can prevent just one person from going through what I have, I will feel like my experience was worth it. 

I'm sure my mom and dad had been having problems before I noticed but the time I remember everything starting was Halloween of 2008. I was in the 4th grade and my mom picked me up early so we could decorate the house. When we got home, my mom was really upset and my dad was home early from work. When I asked them what was wrong, my dad told me he had lost his job. Being so young I didn't realize what his meant for us. My mom had been a stay at home mom since I was born so now that I'm older I realize this moment meant we had no money. At the time the stock market was down so it was really hard for my dad to find a new job. Because of his frustration and anger he began to drink. As time went on he became an alcoholic and this is where things started to get bad. My parents started to fight and to keep it away from me and my brother they would only fight at night. Their screaming and yelling woke me up almost every time and I would sit at the edge of my bed right by my door and just listen. My dad would be in the kitchen breaking glasses demanding my mom to give him her purse, keys and phone. I remember she would hide it in the oven so he wouldn't find it. I never really understood what they were fighting about, I just knew it was marital problems between them. One night I got so scared that my dad was going to hurt my mom I ran out of my room crying begging them to stop fighting. When they realized I had been watching they went to be and ended it for the night. That didn't last long. The same cycle started happening over and over. As my mom grew tired of being screamed at she started taking trips to her hometown of Corpus Christi to get away. This left me and my brother with my dad. My mom leaving brought up a new feeling of abandonment. She was the one that made us feel safe and she just left us behind.. this made my dad even more angry and gave them a whole new reason to fight. My parent began to live in separate bedrooms but still that didn't help the fighting. On my 10th birthday I had a group of friends over to celebrate with me. At first only my mom was home because my dad was out at the bar. Eventually he came home drunk and automatically began fighting with my mom in front of all my friends. My dad took my moms phone and broke it. One of my friends phones had disappeared and my mom had later told me she had taken it because she needed something to call the police with if she needed it. They took their fighting to their bedroom but you could still hear them screaming. I spent most of that time crying in my friends lap. Suddenly we heard a loud hit and I ran into their bedroom. When I walked in I saw my dad and mom sitting on the floor and a piece of the bathroom door frame broken off. It turns out that my mom had locked herself in the bathroom to protect herself from my dad and my dad decided to punch the door in and ended up breaking it. I had finally had enough and screamed at them to stop and that they had already ruined my birthday. My dad went to his room and my friends and I went to the living room to watch a movie. It was about 11 and there was a knock at the door. It was the police. The pulled me outside and asked me a few questions about my parents fighting. Apparently my dad had sent a picture of his hand to my aunt accusing my mom of hitting my dad and breaking his hand. My aunt then proceeded to call the police on her. They said because it was so late and my mom was in charge of my friends that they had to ask my dad to leave. I was actually glad for one night I wouldn't have to be in the middle of them fighting. A few days later everything was fine we were all having a good time watching tv and then my dad snapped. He started arguing with my mom and eventually went into his room. I went in there to check on him and he was laying on his bed with a bat In his hand. I asked him why he had it and his reply was “Your mom has hired someone to kill me and I need this to protect myself” I ran out of the room and started crying in my mom's arms. A few minutes later my dad came out of the room with the bat in his hand and held it over my mom's head. My brother and I hid under her arms as my dad said “if you ever talk to me like that again I'll crush you skull in with this bat” and then walked away. One Saturday morning a few days after that, my dad got us up really early and told us we had to help him move out. We then helped my dad pack up his stuff and move it into his mom's house. This began the new journey of split custody. They decided that we would spend one week with each parent to try and make it easier on us. Although the fighting at night had stopped the going back and forth between houses really took a toll on both me and my brother. I began to get really angry at my parents and I started being a really mean person. My brother once asked me “why are you so mean all the time?” He was too young to understand the situation so he was too young to know why I was so angry. Soon after that my parents got a divorce and for the first time ever I had to move out of the house I had lived in since I was born. The new argument was who we would live with. The one memory I have is of both my parents crying asking me and my 7 year old brother which parent we wanted to live with more. We didn't understand why we had to chose and the choice shouldn't have been put on us. The next few years things calmed down a bit but my parents decided to get remarried because they didn't want us to grow up in a “broken home.” This was the worst decision they could of made. Not too long after they got remarried the fighting started again. And it was like nothing had ever changed. I was in the middle of their arguments passing messages back and forth from one another's bedrooms because they were too childish and stubborn to talk to each other. The drinking was still going so my dad was even more abusive to my mom. She was living in our study and my mom had a hunting knife in her stuff to protect herself. My dad found it one night and as I stood in the doorway of my room I watched him hold it up to her throats and say “if I wanted to kill you I could” that night I had completely lost all faith I had left in my dad. They had tried marital counseling and every other possibility but nothing helped. Not to long after my parents got a divorce for the second and final time. Again the custody battles started up. I remember one night my dad had agreed to let us stay with our mom but later decided he wanted us. My dad came over to our house and was banging on the door demanding my mom to give us to him. Our neighbors ended up calling the police and the officer made my dad go home and let us stay with our mom cause it was 11:30 on a school night. Soon after I went into a really deep state of depression and I developed severe anxiety. I lost a lot of weight and spent most of my night in bed alone crying and I began to self harm. My parent never realized how much I knew about their fighting so they didn't realize why I was so depressed and why I would have sudden breakdowns and still to this day don't know about my scars. We still to this day live out of bags going back and forth between houses and I personally never feel at home anywhere. I was in middle school at the time so things were extra hard on me. It wasn't until 8th grade when I became close to one of my teachers that things started to change for me. She became a personal counselor to me but mostly so was a grown up I could look up to. I came to her when I was feeling down and she was always there to support me. With her support and my determination to have a better future for myself and eventually for my kids I pulled myself out of my depression by surrounding myself with the things I loved like softball. Softball helped me take my mind off things while getting some anger out. Because of that support I had and because of softball I was able to overcome my depression and I vowed to myself that I would never let a man treat me like that and that I would have a better home for my children than I did. Although things are still not perfect with my parents and I don't really have a good relationship with them, all that truly matters to me is that I have changed my life for the better and that I've learned how to deal with those negative situations. I do still have some anxiety from the memories that are still there and I have developed a few insecurities and fears but now I know that I have people there to support me and that there is always a way to help myself get better. It may be hard but there is always a way to get better. ​

I've struggled with anxiety all my life. I didn't know until about a year ago that this feeling---feeling overwhelmed in social settings, drowning in school, and longing to just be alone---was unnatural. Life isn't supposed to be like this. And I'm still struggling. I've found ways to handle it publicly but I'm still coming to terms with it all. Being open about it with my parents and best friends have helped me so much. They understand what I mean when I say "I don't feel like going out tonight" while at the same time encouraging me to come out of my shell. To everyone out there battling anxiety and depression: don't be afraid to tell people. Whether it's the whole school or just one person, all you need is someone to discuss your struggles with. A fresh perspective helped me see life like it is, not how I'm used to seeing it. Drowning isn't part of life. Accepting that there is so much goodness to discover gave me hope and helps me see past my anxiety.

In February of 2015 I met a beautiful boy. He was sweet and charming and he knew exactly how to make me smile. After a few weeks we started daiting. After about 2 months of being exclusively together he started making comments like "hey baby maybe you should go to the gym" or "babe your weight is to much for me" and slowly but surely I started feeling self conscience and I depended on him for reassurance. I needed him to make me feel good about myself. Everytime we would get into an argument I would go in the bathroom and cut my arms and legs with a razor blade, so deep that the scars now make texture on my skin. Once we reached 6 months together I was completely dependant on him. Anytime he was at all upset I would be distressed and do anything to make it up to him. One incident in particular pushed me over the edge. My uncle had taken us to a baseball game and I had a beer. When we got home he grabbed my face on either side screamed at me and then shoved me away. I forgave him for that but I never forgot. 2 months later we got into another fight. That's when we decided that we weren't going to make it. That we needed to break up. I was so distraught over the break up I drank and I popped pills and I was cutting even worse. I attempted Suicide and was hospitalized twice in a week. I was committed to a psychiatric hospital. I stayed there for 6 days. After my treatments and 15 weeks of out patient therapy. I finally gained control of my own life. Ever since I have had relapses but I have been able to recover.

​Depression, Anxiety, PTSD, Self Harm. What happened between "then" and now. It hurts. It hurts to have been born with depression. It hurts to grow up with the burden of an anxiety disorder. It hurts to have grown up in an emotionally and physically abusive household. It hurts to have been raised under the care of a parent suffering from severe mental illness. It hurts to think about having been molested at the age of 8 by a family friend. It hurts to remember being sexually assaulted in the 8th grade by someone I mistakenly gave my heart, and my trust. It hurts to remember “falling in love” for the first time, and then having my self worth shattered by that same love. It hurts to think about the 4 consecutive years that I underwent bullying so severe that I lost all of my self respect, my ability to think rationally, my dignity. It hurts to suffer from PTSD as a result of the many things I have been through. Not a day goes by without all of the above, at the very least, crossing my mind- if not choosing to fully occupy it. I used to attend Leander High School- I was a Pre-I.B. student. I had a GPA of 4.85. I was taking all A.P courses. I was hardworking and dedicated to my studies. And then I was crushed under the weight of my own soul. I have always suffered from depression, and an anxiety disorder. Dealing with the consequences of both is far from “new” to me. But while they can be manageable, extreme stress can amplify the “symptoms” of both. In my case, nearly all of my stress was a direct result of being so harshly bullied (receiving death threats, being told to kill myself, being made fun of, and at one point, stalked) that I considered ending my own life on several different occasions. What drove me to the breaking point wasn’t the bullying in itself, which had gone on for 4 years...but the fact that nobody, not even faculty members, was willing to do something about it. I had a mountain of evidence to suggest (and prove) who was responsible for sabotaging my social life. This included screenshots of death threats from the girl herself, admissions from friends of the bully that said she had ASKED THEM TO DO THINGS TO ME, and screenshots of messages she had sent to other people, describing in detail, what she had done or planned to do to me- and yet, my own assistant principal couldn’t bring himself to deal out actual consequences when my bully was caught - only empty threats of juvenile detention, which obviously never accomplished anything, because the girl never stopped harassing me. They were all too afraid to “ruin” this girl’s life by punishing her for her actions, many of which were tantamount to felonies. I lost hope once I realized that I didn’t have a voice in combatting the harassment. My motivation by sophomore year died completely. The stress caused me to lose weight, and energy- I was always weak, and I always had a burning feeling in the pit of my stomach. My eating habits changed- sometimes I wouldn’t eat for days, and other days, I would binge due to severe stress. I stopped caring about my hygiene- it was as if I didn’t even have enough energy to take a shower, or find clean clothing. I couldn’t bring myself to do my schoolwork. I had so many ambitions I wanted to fulfill, including my involvement in the I.B. program, and the school newspaper- and I failed in nearly every way, as I barely participated. Every day after school when I got home, I went straight to bed- because sleeping was a way to escape the painful memories and experiences bouncing around in my head. By the last 3 months of the school year, all of my grades had dropped to averages of 60’s and 70’s. I passed many of my classes by the grace of some of my teachers, who recognized to an extent that something was wrong. But the circumstances had “cracked” me. I crumbled under the judgement of peers and strangers alike, and the pain and betrayal I felt. And in the end, I was pulled out of the school permanently. No going on to the I.B. program- I lost the opportunity to participate in classes I was genuinely excited for, and I missed out on fantastic teachers I had developed friendships with. I had also lost contact with friends I loved dearly for their support and kindness. So, I was moved to another school in the district. And I decided that a “true” fresh start would be perfect for me- and it was. My best friend, disgusted with what she watched me go through at Leander, switched to my new school to be with me. I started off my Junior year with all AP courses, and was able to get into senior level advanced courses early, as well. I joined a program meant to compete with the I.B. program. I discovered that many of my new teachers had connections to my favorite teachers from LHS, and found that they were also wonderful people. My best friend and I have been able to develop a comfortable, healthy social group, made up of intelligent and kind people- and since the end of sophomore year, I haven’t had to deal with harassment of any kind. But despite all of this… something lingered. My memories. My mental and emotional wounds never actually healed. The source of the problem was gone, but there was never a true resolution to the conflict I endured. Little did I know that I was suffering from PTSD as a result of what I had gone through. My crystal clear memory of every conflict related to the bullying, of every word spoken, every lie told, every person manipulated, every situation twisted haunted me. I would have dreams repeating especially horrific incidents over and over again… or I would be in the middle of math class, when suddenly, thoughts of the bully crossed my mind. Once, I saw her in a grocery store- and the pain flooded back to me after almost a week of feeling “okay”. I wanted to scream at her, hit her, kick her, ask her why: and at the same time, I wanted to run and hide, curl up into a ball, and pretend I didn’t even exist. Who could have guessed that my suffering would lead to the development of a chronic, pain based illness I would have for the rest of my life. My Junior year of high school started off well… Until I began having stomach cramps at random times during the day. At first, they were manageable...but they evolved into stabbing pains that would leave me hunched over in agony, unable to move. And these stabbing pains eventually became constant- no breaks between episodes. I was always in pain...And then I started throwing up- daily. I began missing school; in total, nearly 3 months of it, spread across the entirety of the first semester. But... It wasn’t until I threw up blood that I found true cause for concern- and after a “wonderful” array of tests and laparoscopies, I was diagnosed with Irritable Bowel Syndrome. “Irritable Bowel Syndrome”- it doesn’t sound like a big deal. It’s a “diagnosis of exclusion”- meaning that it’s diagnosed only when no other tests can determine a more obvious problem. But the name of the illness hardly suits it, as it mimics the symptoms of major gastrointestinal illnesses like Crone’s disease- and as such, it is, in itself, a major illness. I.B.S. is incurable. Little about it is understood, except for one thing- that it correlates strongly with stress. I was stressed to the point of developing a chronic condition that has left me in physical agony for the past 7 months. The implications for my grades are obvious- although luckily, my school has been very understanding, and my teachers have worked diligently to ensure that I finish all of the schoolwork I have missed. And I am in the same situation now, as I write this. So you might wonder, where is the silver lining to this story? Unfortunately, there isn’t one. I’m as lost as you probably are, reading this. So why write at all? Because I know there are others who can relate to my story, in one way or another. Because I want people who have been through the same pain I have to know that while it doesn’t necessarily end, you can still find a way to get through it. I could have given up 4 years ago and taken my life then, when the bullying began. I could have given up 3 years ago, when I was raped. I could have given up 2 years ago, when I was alienated by peers and ignored by those responsible for protecting students. I could have given up a year ago, when my grades faltered, and my motivation and ambition faltered. But I didn’t. I don’t quite know why, myself- I don’t know where the energy comes from, because I don’t feel like I have any left. And yet, My will to live burns under the cloak of depression, PTSD, anxiety, and pain. I’m still doing well academically. I’m maintaining healthy relationships. I’m forcing myself, each and every day, to pause in the middle of a “negative” thought-train. I recognize that I’m lucky enough to have a select few people in my life that I genuinely love, who love me back enough to support me despite the burdens they already carry. And so, I’m still trying. For my loved ones, but most importantly, for myself as well. Know This: “You wake up every morning to fight the same demons that left you so tired the night before, and that, my love, is bravery.”