Un-eligible Princess

If you could use your imagination for a second and imagine me standing in front of you, I’m terrified and shaking and trembling but I’m reading this with a smile on my face. Because I’m terrified of speaking in large groups, but when I’m reading my words from the page, I’m the only one in the room.

Right now, it’s one in the morning, or 7 at night, or pick a time any time. And I’ve written many things already tonight. And the number of words I’ve written in my life is probably greater than the number I’ve spoken. And that’s ok. Because with every beat of my heart, my blood carries my words throughout my body, reaching my brain and my fingers until I itch for a pen.

But there was a time when I would have reached for the razor instead. I would have watched as my blood trickled from my skin and the tears from my eye flood carried the words I didn’t know how to say from this body of mine. Because I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, but a part of it leaves when I sit down to write. Because my heart cries tears of pain and joy and desperation, and all this accumulation turns into inspiration late at night.

And I’m well-versed in the art of poetry (and also math, but Calculus 101 and 102 demanded my wrath). But poetry is not a mathematical equation, unless you’re Shakespeare with his sonnets, and his perfect 14 lines of iambic pentameter.

Because

Any

Sentence

Is

Poetry

If

You

Write

Like

This.

And if that’s poetry, I’m not a poet—try my way though. Because my prosetry may include rhyme and meter, because I grew up counting meter for music, so I’ve met her (be)fore. And anything is a metaphor if you try hard enough. I draw poetry from life around me and the pain inside me. Because every so often, I think ‘why me?’

And I believe my words are beautiful. Because they have the power to open minds, change minds, encourage minds, and maybe one day convince someone to be mine. Even dressed to the nines, I don’t feel fine, by which I mean beautiful.  Because what’s beautiful about scars? I mean Scar was the bad guy in Lion King, and I’m the Daughter of the King, so don’t my scars make me the “Next Un-eligible Princess?” And I try to hide mine, because I drew the line and connected the scars on my skin, and one day I picked up the pen instead.

Because writing makes me feel beautiful. And my writing is beauty filled, and people tell me they’re proud of me. And if my writing can help thee, then it shall be. Because I don’t want to hide these red razor lines on my abs and my thighs, so I transfer them to my writing, which is fine by me. My scars say “I have survived,” but these demons won’t go away, which is why writing is here to stay. Because this pain is enough to drive me insane, but my words are enough to keep them at bay.

Because not too long ago, I believed that beauty was directly proportional to weight, which made me hate society. Because when did it become ok to say things to ourselves we are too afraid to say to anyone else? And when did skeletons become goddesses teaching us to not need? Because what does thin mean to you? Sophistication, adoration, adulation, a vaccination against segregation? And if that’s beauty, I’ll stay ugly.

Because I’ve always been too big, too loud, too quiet, too excitable. But that’s ok, because my heart is too big to be contained in jeans too small for a stick. And although some days I hate everything about who, what, and how I am, it’s ok anyway. Because I have enough pain to write novels like Bronte. And they will be beautiful, because slowly and surely, I am learning to love myself. There are parts of me that shine like the stars. Because my eyes are full of wonder, and when I make a blunder: I still walk into the light.

So I can no longer believe that my value is tied into how much I weigh, because whoever said “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” clearly never tried Red Velvet anything. Besides, I have better things to worry about. I mean, I have a book to write, and lives to change, and people to hug, and stories to tell. And the last thing I want people to remember me for is my weight. I want to be remembered for doing something great.

But right now, in this moment, I’m 19. I’m here, and I’m so afraid. But my courage is roaring like the sun, because I’ve made it this far, and I know I’ll be ok. So when I get up in the morning, and my legs feel like they might buckle, I’ll have to trust that they are strong enough to keep me from falling. I am strong enough. Besides, if they’re not strong enough in that moment, life goes on. And I can try again tomorrow.

 

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What’s in Forgiveness?

“Always forgive your enemies-nothing annoys them so much.”- Oscar Wilde

Forgiveness sucks. (By sucks I don’t mean it sucks in the figurative sense. I mean forgiveness is hard. It’s difficult, unpleasant, easier said than done, troublesome. But it’s absolutely necessary if you ever want to get anywhere with your life.)

I’ve grown up learning the importance of forgiveness. I’ve learned Bible verses and parables and all sorts of biblical knowledge about what forgiveness is and how to forgive. And to be honest, I’m still learning what it means to forgive.

I’ve always associated forgiveness with an apology. I’m sorry. I forgive you. But realistically, that’s not the way the world works. Apologies and forgiveness are not mutually exclusive.

APOLOGIES AND FORGIVENESS ARE NOT MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE. Often times in life, you won’t get an apology (at least not a sincere one).

This is a concept I haven’t understood until recently. I’m extremely stubborn and maybe sometimes a bit prideful, so I never understood how I could be expected to forgive someone if they didn’t admit they were wrong.

I understand now.

You see, after I was sexually assaulted, I was extremely bitter. And then one day I wrote a blog post in which I “forgave them.” I thought that was it. I could finally let go of my past. I could finally be free. That tells you how much I know (which when compared to everything there is to know, is approximately nothing). And then I started to feel less bitter. I was still depressed, I still had random mental breakdowns, still freaked out anytime I was reminded or saw any of my attackers.

That is until two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, I saw one of them in Target. I didn’t freak out. I didn’t go into the bathroom and cry. I just kept walking. And that’s when I realized I never actually forgave them.

I said that I forgave them, but it was arbitrary and meaningless. I did it out of obligation and not necessitation. I didn’t need to forgive them, just like  I thought I didn’t need God.

Forgiveness is an active thing. There’s no such thing as passively forgiving somebody. Until you actually forgive with your heart, it’s void, empty.

So yesterday, I facebook messagd the guy I saw in Target two weeks ago, who by the way, was the one that caused my sexual assault. I sent only three words, I forgive you.

I doubt I’ll ever get an apology. An apology isn’t needed. I just need him to know he’s forgiven, because I don’t know where he is in his life, but maybe being forgiven will impact him in a way that hasn’t happened before.

And if it doesn’t, that’s ok. Because truly forgiven has impacted my life. Being truly forgiven by somebody who is truly perfect has impacted my life.

I don’t always deserve forgiveness. I’ve sinned. I’ve messed up. I have no idea what I’m doing half the time. God loves me anyway. God forgives me anyway.

So, yes, I forgave this guy, because I want to be more like Jesus. I also forgave myself. Because one time I tried to kill myself. I forgive myself for the scars I purposefully put on my skin. I forgive myself for all the hurt I caused myself. God tells us to love our enemies, and sometimes we are our own worst enemy.

I know I am.

I’ve forgiven. I’m finding healing. And I’ll always be living with Depression, but that’s ok. God loves me anyway. I’m forgiven anyway.

Our Father which art in Heaven.

Hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done

on Earth as it is in Heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread,

and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation, bur deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever.

Amen.

Learning to Recover

It’s 11:00 at night, and I can’t sleep. And usually when this happens, I start counting down the hours until I have get up, which is pretty much the pessimistic version of ‘if I fall asleep now, I can get thismany hours of sleep.”

a)I have to be up in 5,4,3,2,1 hours.  b) If I fall asleep now, I can get 5,4,3,2,1 hours of sleep. 

Nights like this, where it’s 11:00 and then it’s Midnight and then it’s 1 am, and I’m still awake, are the nights when all my nerve endings are exposed. I’m lying in bed, and I feel nothing, and then I feel everything. My mind is racing a thousand miles a minutes, and I can’t keep up (mostly because I have asthma).

Nights like this used to make me feel like I was being hit square in the chest by a train going 4000 miles an hour, which then launched me into a brick wall. If I fall asleep now, I can get 5,4,3,2,1 hours of sleep. The more I counted down the hours, the more I tried to force myself to not think, which accomplished the exact opposite, that is, my mind created these ridiculous scenarios where I was left saying,

Sorry I fell asleep during your class, Professor. You see, nights have always been hard for me, because with out the busyness the day provides, I’m left to face all of my demons, which let me tell you, is exhausting. And unfortunately, my mind throws about a hundred thoughts my way a second, which means there’s no rest for this weary soul, because I’m left having an existential crisis at 3 am. So, unless you have a physics formula to solve that equation, I’m going to let gravity control my head and lay it down on this desk. Because force equals mass times acceleration, and I’m not Catholic, but I know the rate at which objects accelerate as they fall to earth, and I know the force at which I was propelled off this cliff. So unless you have a parachute or a giant trampoline, you’re not really of use to me at this current moment. But if history ever repeats itself, I’ll come find you since History was never my strong(est) subject.

At 3 am, I have the best comebacks.

I was told once that darkness is just the absence of light, which is true, but I’ve also learned that you can’t see the stars without darkness. So, I guess it’s a paradox. Life is a paradox, and it’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma, encased in a conundrum. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Because nights like this, nights where the weight of the world is compressing my chest, and I can’t breathe remind me I’m still alive. They remind me I’m healing. Because once upon a time, the urge to end my life was so strong. I could verge off the road here… I could slice my wrists with this tape gun… I could take just a few more pills…

I still have those thoughts. But, they’re less urgent. More quiet. More in the back ground. That’s how I know I’m recovering.

I used to feel nothing, but now I feel everything, and the only way to fix a third degree burn is to peel of the burned skin until the nerve endings are exposed. You have to feel worse before you can feel better. Struggling to breathe every once in a while makes your lungs stronger. Forgetting how to walk makes each step so much more beautiful.

Darkness makes the light so much more enjoyable.

I enjoy nights like this now. I always do my best writing between 10 pm and 2 am. If I fall asleep now, I can get 5,4,3,2,1 hours of sleep. My darkness has made me who I am.

Recovery is being born out of darkness. It is starting a flame inside your chest. Burning away all the darkness, and making yourself lighter.

I have found the light shining in the darkness.

Olympics and Flying: What they Have in Common

When I was little, I would watch the Olympics in complete awe and reverence. I would watch the gymnasts run down the mats like an airplane taxing down a runway, fling themselves off the vault, fly through the air, twisting and turning like a leaf in the wind, and stick their landings. I would watch the ice skaters glide on the ice like a knife over butter, twirl in the air as they complete their triple axels, and come back down to earth all with the grace of an angel.

And I wanted to be a gymnast and an ice skater and a fairy princess. So, I tried my hardest. I put a step stool down between the lines on the carpet in the living room. I would run and jump off of it, doing a half twist in the air before my feet hit the ground. And in that moment, I was an award-winning gymnast. I would “ice skate” in my socks on hardwood floor, and as I glided over the floors I pretended I was Michelle Kwan. I would take my light pink super hero cape and pretend it was a Queen’s robe, until I decided being prim and proper was boring. Saving the world is more fun.

When I was little, I was obsessed with the idea of flying. I would stand on the bottom step of the staircase in my home and channel my inner Buzz Lightyear by saying, “to infinity and beyond.” Of course, being 3, it would come out “to infiniby and beyond.” And then I would jump off that 6 inch step and flap my arms, because I was convinced that if I flapped my arms hard enough, I could fly around the room. One day, I told my Dad with all the enthusiasm little me could muster, “Daddy. I was in the air for 6 whole seconds!”

Of course, I wasn’t. Children don’t understand time… or gravity.

Sometimes I still don’t.

Time is a relative concept. It’s not a line. It’s more of a… of a… big ball of timey wimey stuff. Gravity isn’t concrete either. Sometimes, when I feel particularly unhappy about my body, I remember that I would weigh less on the moon. So, if I ever fulfill my dream of becoming an astronaut, I’m all set. Because what is weight, but the force of gravity acting upon us? And the amount of gravity depends on the mass of the object. The earth is bigger than the moon. But compared to the size of the universe, the earth is miniscule. A speck of sand on the finger of God. So it’s easy for me to feel small.

On the day I decided to test gravity and throw myself off the metaphorical cliff, I wasn’t small enough for God to see me, to protect me, and save me.

I’ve always been obsessed with the idea of flying, and I’ve learned that 37,000 feet in the air is beautiful.

Gymnasts fly. Ice skaters fly. I’ll never be either.

And that’s ok. Because I’m a writer. I believe in metaphors. I believe in life. And what is life but a metaphor anyway?

When I was little, I believed that if I jumped high enough and flapped my arms hard enough, I would sprout wings and fly around the room.

One day, I woke up, and I had wings. And now I’m flying.

The girl who is scared of heights, which is more a fear of falling aka a fear of trying to die, is flying high in the sky. And nothing will ever bring me down.

Normal Day: I attempted suicide 4 years ago

Today’s a normal day: I’m sitting in the library, at my normal table, people watching because that’s how I draw my inspiration, and it may seem counter intuitive, but sometimes watching people and getting caught up in the world I imagine for them is the only way I can get my homework done.

Today’s a normal day. Except, it’s not.

4 years ago, almost to the day, I tried to kill myself. I can remember the time and the place. I can remember it all. And now, I’m sitting in my Campus library, in my normal spot, wondering how on earth I made it this far.

How did I get here?

What am I doing here?

And sometimes I find myself wondering if people make up stories about me like I do them. Do they know who I am? Do they know what I’ve been through? If they do, are they judging me for it?

You see, yesterday, I posted this picture of one of my Facebook statuses on Twitter:

Which is kind of a big deal, because my Facebook friends are people I know, and only people I know can see it. On Twitter, however, that is not the case. It got retweeted by one of my friends, and people who I don’t know favorited it.

I think it’s a good thing, because maybe what I’ve been through can help them even if I haven’t met them?

But are they judging me? Because they don’t know me, and it’s easy to form judgments about people you don’t know.

Because yes, I’ve been sexually assaulted, which has led to me living with depression, attempting suicide, and battling anorexia. And it would be easy for people to judge me.

But what I’ve been through doesn’t define me.

I am so much more than my past.

I’m a Christian whose faith in God has been strengthened by what I’ve been through.

I’m a Survivor who has used what I’ve been through to help others. When I went to Guatemala, I was able to lead a young teenage girl to Christ because I was brave enough to share my story.

I’m a writer and a poet who is writing a book, because I believe in the power of words.

Today is a normal day: I’m sitting at my normal table in the library, studying grammar with my friends, people watching, and making up stories about their lives.

Today is a normal day. 4 years ago, I tried to kill myself. I’ve been waiting for my life to begin, and it’s already begun.

I was living my life when I went to Guatemala, climbed up to the highest floor of a mall parking garage, looked down, and didn’t want to jump.

I was living my life when I wanted to jump to end my life.

I was living my life when I tried to hide my past.

I live my life every day despite how numb I sometimes feel inside, and despite my heart being ripped out of my body through my throat whenever someone says, “You have no reason to be depressed.”

This pain I feel is real, and despite choosing to live after deciding to die, it’s present in my life right now.

So, I’m living my life every day, even though depression sometimes makes my life kind of gray.

Each day is a new shade of gray. 50 shades of gray: depression edition.

Today is a normal day even though big things have happened in my life recently. I’ve found healing and hope and love. The scar on my wrist reminds me of where I’ve been.

Every day, depression threatens to take over my life, because depression doesn’t care that I’m a white teenage girl who lives with her parents, who can afford to go to college. I guess that makes me average.

I just want to be normal. That’s why today is a normal day, despite what happened 4 years ago.

 

To the Guy who turned a date rejection into a sexual invitation

First of all, how dare you.

Second of all, You don’t scare me anymore.

You see, I saw you in Target the other day. I didn’t freak out. I didn’t run to the bathroom and cry. I walked by you as if you were a normal person. I didn’t even acknowledge your existence.

And that’s a big deal, because up until a few months ago even meeting someone with the same first name as you was enough to make me break out into a cold sweat. But not anymore. And I can’t tell you how great that feels.

For so many years, you’ve had this invisible hold on me. I couldn’t allow myself to be happy. I couldn’t allow myself to be loved. And even though I forgave you, I wasn’t healed from you.

But I am now. I am completely and totally free from you.

AND I COULD SHOUT IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS, BECAUSE IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME COMING.

You don’t scare me anymore.

However, that doesn’t mean the Depression you caused will go away. It won’t. It hasn’t. Some days I’m fine, and others I’m not at all fine. Some nights I lie in bed and feel  nothing. Some nights I lie in bed and feel everything. And I don’t know which is worse.

But I do know this: I’m a different person than I was 5 (almost 6) years ago.

And I’ve learned things from you I might have never learned. They’ve made me a better person. So, I guess in a way, I’m saying thank you, but I’m not really.

I’ve become stronger.

I’ve become more open at my struggles with depression, anxiety, anorexia, and even you.

And one day, I’ll meet a guy, and he’ll be fantastic. Maybe I’ve already met him, and he is fantastic. Either way, one day, I’ll tell him the whole story.

And he’ll probably be mad (if he’s a good guy, he’ll be mad), but I’ll tell him to forgive you, to have compassion for you like I do.

I have compassion for you, because I don’t know the whole reason why you decided to get your friends together and sexually assault me after I turned you down. Maybe you were abused. Maybe you had a rough family life. I don’t know.

Whatever the reason, I hope you’re in a better place now. And I want you to know that me having compassion on you, is not the same as justifying what you did. Because I will never do that. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.

Time changes a person.

I hope if you ever find somebody who loves you, that you’ll treat her with the respect she deserves.

I hope one day you can ask for forgiveness for what you did to me–not from me. From God. I don’t know where your relationship with God is, or if you even believe in God. But I hope one day you do.

Because everything He’s done for me, He can do for you, too.

 

 

Just Me, My Selfie, and I

There’s 521 photos on my phone’s photo album. 1/3 of them are selfies. Now before you ask yourself, “Who does this chick think she is?” and before you think I’m vain, let me tell you about my pain.

I remember the first time I was called ‘ugly.’ I was in Kindergarten, barely old enough to understand the meaning behind the word, but old enough to feel the crater-size impression it left in my chest. And I wondered how a word I barely knew how to spell could make me feel so small. Because suddenly, I became aware of how vast the universe is, and dictionaries and encyclopedias can only tell you so much.

They can tell you a definition, but can’t help you understand the concept. Concepts have to be taught and learned. So, when I looked up the definition of ‘ugly,’ I was confused, because I thought everything was beautiful, and I didn’t understand how everybody else couldn’t think so, too. But, boy, did I learn. Because hearing the same thing over and over and over again makes you start to believe it. And no matter how untrue it may be, it eats away at your self-esteem until it’s as small as you felt the day you realized the magnitude of the universe. 

I can’t remember the second time, or the third time, or the 444th time. But I remember the first time, and I remember the worst time. (and if you know anything about me, you probably know the worst time, too.) Between the first time and the worst time I tried to swallow myself up, because then maybe I could feel bigger. But I also starved myself, because I wanted to be smaller. And when people acknowledged my existence, I would stare at the floor while my ears turned red, and my breath left my chest. And I would mumble out my answer–quickly and quietly, like the way teachers tell children to evacuate during a fire drill. Quickly and quietly.

Speak up.

Slow down.

And sometimes I still talk the same way: eyes down cast, quickly and quietly. Afraid if I take too long to answer, the person I’m talking to will realize I’m not as beautiful as I should be or want to be. And maybe they’ll see past the makeup I wear to hide my imperfections, because somehow, I got the short end of the stick in the Looks’ Department, and nobody will love me now. And that explains how I can go from self-confident to self-conscious in no time at all (especially in a dining hall that can go from empty to crowded in less time than it takes for me to realize I can’t measure up to the beautiful people I’m surrounded by). And don’t get me started on the whispers, the pointing, the stares. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

And this ugliness I was told I possessed turned into an ugliness I felt in every breath. I call it: Depression.

Depression isn’t always beautiful girls slicing their skin, and handsome guys fighting a glorified, heroic battle. Sometimes Depression means not wanting to get out of bed ever, because somehow your feet refuse to believe they won’t shatter on impact when they hit the ground. Nobody likes things that are broken. Sometimes Depression means doing laundry is the biggest feat of the week, and that’s ok. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. Sometimes Depression means lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, thinking about nothing and everything, because your body is convinced it’s paralyzed. Sometimes Depression means that I, a writer at heart, can’t even string together coherent thoughts other than, “I’m trapped and drowning, and I swear I’m trying.” And people don’t want to hear the same story over and over again. But sometimes, that’s the only story I know how to tell. Sometimes Depression means every bone in your body aches, but you have to keep doing your routine, because some people still think Depression isn’t a valid disease. Sometime Depression is ignoring every text message you receive, because even though the number is right, the person they’re searching for is nowhere to be found.

And it’s days like this, days where all I want to do is lie on the floor and never move again, days where I feel the ugliest that I post selfies.

Selfies like these:

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I post selfies on my “I feel ugly” days, because they allow me to see my whole face and whole body in ways I’m not always able to. Because of selfies, I have become a regular part of the world, not always beautiful, but not always hiding my face and body. And it’s so liberating.

I post selfies, because they help me believe I’m beautiful.

I told myself the only way to be beautiful was to be someone else. Boy, was I wrong.