I Didn’t Attempt Suicide Today

“What are you going to do after you graduate? Are you going to go back to school?”

“Yeah. I’ll probably get a Masters, and then maybe even a Doctorate.”

“In what?”

“Sleeping, probably.”

I’ve never seen my grandfather laugh so hard; but, I wasn’t joking.

I was as serious as depression, which, coincidentally, was the reason I was going to get a doctorate in sleeping.

Depression is fickle, oxymoronic, persistent, and sneaky, boy, is it sneaky. It’s the best Con Artist, the Great Persuader, the Silent Terror. It cuddles up next to you in the middle of the night, convincing you that it’s your best friend, that it has your best interests at heart. It would never hurt you. It feeds you lies when you’re too weak from starving yourself to refuse, and as you’re wasting away, it feeds on your weakness. It convinces you that it can teach you to fly, and after you’ve already jumped off the cliff, you realize the wings it gave you aren’t really wings at all. It doesn’t bother to help pick you up off the rocky ground at the bottom.

All you want to do is sleep; it won’t let you do that either, but it will make it impossible to get out of bed. It’s silent in the way that it sneaks up on you when you least expect it: you’re happy and giggly one moment and silent and moody in the next. But it’s oh so loud in the way that it rings in your ears over and over not-good-enough, not-good-enough, not-enough, and in the way it causes your heart to feel like it’s going to beat out of your chest in thesuddenly-called-on-in-class-but-weren’t-paying-attention anxious sort of way.

It’s a deep ache, a heaviness that starts in the deep recesses of your soul and then settles somewhere around your heart (sort of like a sore muscle that you wake up with). You can go about your daily life, but you muddle through it, compensating for the hurt.

We all compensate in different ways: some turn to drugs, some, like me, turn to self-harm and starvation, some turn to writing (I got there eventually). But most all of us stay quiet, trying not to draw attention to ourselves or our situation.


I’ve always been quiet. Being the oldest grandchild on my mother’s side and the oldest granddaughter on my father’s, I never really had to say much to get what I wanted. As I got older and younger sisters, and then younger cousins, came along, I never really grew out of my shell. I was content to stay on the sidelines, to wait to be asked if I wanted something (to set up a game on my grandparent’s table and wait and wait and wait until someone asked me if I wanted to play).

A few years ago, my mother told a family member that on the first day of kindergarden, my teacher called home to ask if I “had an attitude problem” because I wouldn’t say hello.

No, she’s just quiet. They said. She doesn’t talk. (Eventually, after the first week, I said hello back and got to join my peers in Center Play).

As I went on in my schooling, speech therapy and, eventually,counseling became weekly occurrences. Speech therapy, because despite knowing how to read before entering kindergarden, my tongue refused to pronounce certain letters and words correctly — namely, r and any word with an r and l in quick succession, like world or shoulder or soldier. Counseling because, despite what I thought, talking to people is necessary for friendships.

The counseling helped with the making of friends. But my report cards still said Pleasure to have in class, but needs to participate in class discussions.

If my post-schooling life had report cards, they’d say the same thing: Pleasure to do life with, but needs to participate in discussions more.

I’m working on it. But the years of speech therapy did not help with my mumbling, which I am acutely aware of because everytime I talk, my father asks if I’m speaking Russian. I mumble because I get nervous — social anxiety, I think (self-diagnosed) — and not just nervous but like, heart-pounding-acutely aware of everyone looking at me nervous.

Which is why I choose to stay quiet, only choosing to speak if I have something pressingly important to add.


I didn’t think my depression was important enough to mention. My depression told me that, and it told me a lot of other not-so-nice things about myself.

Those closest to me knew I had it, but they didn’t know the severity of it, and I guess neither did I.

Until the night I attempted suicide.

It took swallowing pills to realize that depression is more than sadness. It’s more than self-harm and starvation. It’s life-threatening. And it needs to be talked about, without the taboo and stigma. Because it’s not an attitude problem. Those of us who are struggling can be as smiley and optimistic as those who aren’t suffering, but we can still feel like we just got punched in the gut. We can still want to die.

But with the right resources, we can stave off death for a little while longer.


I didn’t attempt suicide today. Or yesterday, or any day in the past 2,398 days.

2,399 days ago, I did.

But 6 years, 6 months, and 26 days ago, I was a different person. I’m stronger now. I have the right resources and support systems in place to live with depression.

I can talk about my past and what I’ve been through — my rape, my eating disorder, my suicide attempt. I’m not scared to look my past in the face and to show the beauty that has come from it. I’m not afraid to use my story to help others.

I have attempted a lot of things in the past 2,398 days:

I graduated from High school.

I started college.

I went to Guatemala on a Missions Trip.

I have started writing a book (many, many times).

I graduated college.

But perhaps most importantly, I’ve begun to find the pieces of me that I lost. I’m becoming reacquanted with the parts of me that were strangers for far too long: my laughter, my confidence, my body.

I’ve given a voice to the darkest part of myself, knowing it’s ok to talk about hard things. I’ve given names to my depression and intrusive thoughts: André is my depression; Fred is the out-going one who likes to be the center of attention, and Gertrude is the quiet one, who comes out when I’m home alone.

Intrusive thoughts are a lot less scary when you can have conversations with them: No, Fred. I will NOT drive headfirst into this tree. No, the fireworks would not be cool because it’s a burning car on fire, not the fourth of July. And, Shut up, Gertrude. I know there are about 20 Advil in my hand right now, but I only need two. I have a bad shoulder today, not a bad life.

And when the depression gets too bad, and I’m tempted to start to pursue my doctorate in sleeping right then and there, I can say to myself: I know André is bad today, but you’ve beat him before, and you can beat him again. You’ve seen the darkness, and you came out on the otherside.

And the world today is so beautiful.

(originally posted on Medium)

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Six Years and Losing Control

Today marks six years since I last self-harmed. But, if I’m 100% honest, which is what I want to do on this blog, that’s not entirely true. Six years ago was the last time I pressed a sharp object to my skin so hard it drew blood. Six years ago was the last time a sharp object was pressed to my skin so hard that, when I lifted it away, the mark left behind scarred. There have been nights since then, not many of them, but nights that come around once in a great while where I feel every emotion at once, and yet still feel so numb.

And I know that doesn’t make a lot of sense. But imagine this: imagine being burned so bad that every nerve is exposed, and because every nerve is exposed, you feel everything—the changes in temperature, the air pushing against your body, just everything, you feel it all—your body feels so much pain that it shuts down.

That’s how I feel on those once-in-a-great-while nights. Those are the nights when there is so much emotion flooding through my body I can’t focus on anything else: the emotional pain trumps all. So, I need a controlled release—a way of drawing out the pain in a way I can control, not too much, not too little, not too fast, not too slow.  A paperclip rubbed back and forth on the skin a few times does the trick, leaving a scratch raised and red behind which lasts no more than an hour.

And I’m not proud of that, but it’s the only way I know how to control my pain. I can’t control what I feel emotionally, but I can control how I feel physically—what I do to myself. So, it’s been six years since I last self-harmed deep enough to draw blood, but I don’t want to remember forever how long it’s been.

I want to let myself forget—how long it’s been since I was raped, how long it’s been since I tried to kill myself, how long it’s been since I stopped self-harming, how long it’s been since I started eating again. I don’t want to live my life in terms of anniversaries of my past when I know the anniversaries of my future are so much better. I want to let myself forget so I can rejoice in what tomorrow has to offer me without placing it in the context of my past, without forgetting my past.

I’m never going to forget my past, but I want to stop living in terms of it. My past has made me who I am today, and it’s who I am today that will have a bearing on who I am tomorrow. What happened to me in my past matters simply because it happened to me. It’s part of my story, but it’s not the most important part of my life—it’s not the most interesting thing about me. Sometimes I treat my past like it’s the most important thing.

I have more to offer this world than my retellings of what happened to me. Sometimes I think people will only like me because of what happened to me, even though I know that’s not true.

So I want to forget. I want to stop framing my present in terms of my past, but forgetting means letting go, means losing control. And I’ve fought so hard to control what I can because for so long I had none.

I had no control over what happened to me in a school bathroom. I got control by not telling anybody what happened.

I had no control over the voices in my head telling me I wasn’t worth anything. I got control by counting calories, by starving myself.

I had no control over the way I felt nothing, nothing at all. I got control by cutting myself open.

I had no control over my body when I tried to kill myself. I got control by fighting like hell to survive, to live.

I didn’t have a lot of control over my past, and I have very little control over what may happen in the future, but I can control who I am now—what I remember.

This all sounds ridiculous, I’m sure. But I’ve fought so hard to remember the dates where I started healing because I want to remember how far I’ve come when the going gets tough, when I feel defeated, when my intrusive thoughts return.

I want to remember what I’ve been through without being tied to anniversaries because when I think it’s been “six years since I last self-harmed,” I think “it’s been six years, and I’ve only come this far. It’s been this many years, and I haven’t done this.”

I don’t want to think about what I haven’t yet accomplished. I want to think about what I still have yet to accomplish. I have big goals, big dreams, big hopes that seem so far away. And I know that thinking in terms of the past isn’t going to get me there.

I know I have to let go and Let God, as they say.

But letting go and letting God requires a level of trust that I’m not sure I have. I think I might, I maybe do, but I want to be sure.

Yes, there’s always room for doubt, doubt is good. But the last time I doubted God, I almost died—almost killed myself. However, I’m going to trust God anyway because he saved me when I couldn’t save myself.

I’m going to let Jesus take the wheel, even though I’m terrified of giving up control (although I might still backseat drive from time to time. Hey, I’m only human).

So, Jesus, take me. Take me as I am. I’ve been broken into pieces and put back together, but there are still a few cracks left to be filled.

I’m giving up. I’m giving everything I am to you. I don’t know if I trust you completely,yet. But I’m trying my best.

Do with me what you will.

This Same God

“Look me in the eyes. I’ve always liked your eyes.”

His words echoed in my ears as I relived those minutes and over again.

They don’t tell you how much it’s going to affect you if it happens to you. Nobody tells you how you’ll start to see hollowed out memories, a broken down shell of a body, a ghost of the person you used to be. They don’t tell you how it will affect everything about you—the way you move, the way you talk, the way you act, the way you are, who you are (you never really liked yourself anyway, so really it’s a blessing, because it gives you an actual physical reason to change who you are).

Nobody tells you any of this, but they do tell you how to prevent it, though. Thank goodness for that because 1 in 5 women will be raped in their life, so clearly teaching women how not to get raped is clearly working.

“Look me in the eyes. I’ve always liked your eyes.” Trust me when I say that’s the last thing you want to do when you are being violated in the worst way.

His words echoed in my ears as I relived those minutes over and over again—a reminder of one more thing I’d have to change about myself to try and forget, to try and stop it from ever happening again.

It wouldn’t be that hard. The depression had already taken the sparkle out of my eyes. All I had to do was hide them behind glasses I didn’t need and not make eye contact with anyone. Ever.

He sat behind me in English class, which became the class I began to dread. Every day he touched my hair, said he loved the way it smelled.

When we were in that bathroom on that day in the middle of May, he couldn’t stop touching it, smelling it. So I cut it. And when it got long, I cut it again.

His locker was next to mine. He stood at his every day, waiting for me to open mine. Slamming it shut, his hand would briefly touch mine. “Your skin’s so soft,” he would say.

On that day, he couldn’t stop touching me. His fingers leaving bruises behind on my skin as he moved from my neck down. (I couldn’t wear turtlenecks or scarves for the longest time). He made me touch him, and four of his closest friends.

….

I don’t know how you get over that, how you get rid of those memories. So I shut down, became numb. I started cutting in places I was touched to create new sensations (because the sharp pain was better than the memory of a touch of a finger, scars were better than bruises). My legs, stomach, and wrist became a garden of crisscrossed lines marking the way back from where I’d been.

I started starving myself, not because I cared how I looked, but because I didn’t. I didn’t mind the dark circles under my sunken eyes, the cold skin, the way I lost my sparkle. I wanted there to be less of me that remembered what it felt like to not have control over my own body.

I ceased to exist in the way I used to, and I didn’t know how to find my way back to who I used to be. So I thought it would be better if I just ceased to exist entirely, if I ceased to be.

Six years later, I’m still here. And if the question is, “why did you get a second chance when so many others do not?” the answer is, I don’t know. Life is made up of too many questions and not enough answers.

But here’s what I do know.

I do know that I am healing.

I’ve started eating again. I’ve gained the weight back, and then some. But that’s ok, because I’ve come to learn I’m beautiful.

(Almost) six years after cutting for the last time, the crisscrossed lines are almost gone. Only a faint few remain, reminding me of where I’ve been, how strong I am.

Eight years after being raped, the memories of what happened to me is still enough to tie my stomachs up in knots, but I don’t panic when I see him anymore. I don’t run away. I don’t hide.

I’ve started wearing my hair long(er) again. I love wearing scarves. I’m learning to look people in the eyes again.  Speaking of eyes, I’ve begun to notice the sparkle returning to my eyes. And when I see it, I take a picture because I need to be reminded of the beauty in life.

And I’ve relearned about the cleansing power of blood, how I’ve been washed clean, not by the blood that poured from my skin as I cut myself open, but by the blood spilled from the Man who died so I could live, the Man who became “ugly” so I could be beautiful.

So, I don’t know why I was raped, but I do know that I am thankful.

I’m thankful not for the act done for me, but thankful for what I’ve learned along the way. I’m thankful for how much stronger I am now.

But most of all, I’m thankful for the way God has brought people into my life to encourage me and support me, and for the way he has provided me with people and opportunities I can do the same with.

Because, yes, some days are hard, some days it’s hard to breathe; it’s hard to get out of bed. But everyday God reminds me of how beautiful this life is, and when I look at the lines on my palm, I am reminded that the same God who created nature, took the time to hand-stitch me together, and that is enough to get me through the day.

Towers and Earthquakes

Here’s the thing: we spend so much of our lives building an identity–a tower of self that is our foundation, what we base our whole life on–that when life begins to chip away at it, we begin to feel lost and confused.

I remember being younger and building my identity around people in my life, mostly friends, sometimes family. The problem with building your identity around others is that it’s permeable–there are cracks in the foundation, allowing water to get in, eroding away the tower brick by brick, piece by piece.

I left Elementary school with a reasonably adequate sense of self. I thought I knew who I was, what I was doing because when you’re one of the big kids in the school, you think you’re unstoppable, and maybe you are.

But then you’re not. You go from being the kid who’s gone around the block a few times to being the new kid in school. And it’s not the moving up of schools that bothers you because you’ve accepted that growing up and getting older is a part of life.

The problem is that you’re now a small fish in a big sea–you don’t know where you fit, where you belong, who your friends are. Something happens to people in Middle School–everybody is trying to find themselves, figure out who they are, and figure out where they fit. And everybody starts doing this at the same time, creating an upset in the social balance, causing hierarchies to form.

The massive upheaval of self-identity causes bullying to start. You try not to let it get to you. You try not to let the names they call you, the things they say to you influence your life. But they do.

And they did for me, too.

They began to chip away at my tower of identity bit by bit; it began to crumble, but because of the foundation, no matter how shaky it was, I wasn’t really scared of it falling.

But then it did.

When I was in eighth grade, I was raped. And it changed everything. It took everything. It took away the foundation I had spent 13 years building. It took away everything I thought I was. It took away my ability to say “No.” because if one guy asked me out, I rejected him, and this happened, what’s to stop it from happening again.

Being raped was like an earthquake–you’ve all seen the images: the violent tremors, the collapsing buildings, the swirling dust, the weakening skeletons still standing.

Being raped was a lot like that: quick and violent, and when the dust settled, all that was left was a shell of who I once was, who I wanted to be.

When it was all over, I was depressed and broken, lost and confused. I felt as though God had abandoned me.And I didn’t tell anybody. When it was all over, I cleaned myself up, covered the bruises as best I could, and carried on with my life as if nothing had happened.

The pain I was feeling was too intense; it hurt too much–I shut down. Becoming numb was easier than feeling, especially when the voices started, repeating over and over and over the events of that day, the words said I wanted so badly to forget: Slut. Bitch. No one will ever love you. You’re worthless.

I was depressed for so long, so numb that I had forgotten how to feel anything at all. That was when the cutting started. I wanted to feel something, anything. The pain reminded me I was alive, and it became addicting. Even that soon became not enough.Soon the self-harm escalated to self-loathing, subtly over time. One day, I woke up and couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten a full meal. The roaring of my stomach quickly drowned out the voices in my head.

I needed to grasp on to something, so I grasped on to the thought that maybe this would end someday, because even the idea of death is better than grasping on nothing.

Then, one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was tired; boy, was I tired. I let my guard down, stopped trying to shut out the voices in my head. I just wanted peace.

I don’t remember swallowing the pills, but I remember throwing them up. It came after a moment of peace and a whisper: You’ll be ok.

And I was, but not right away. Because I didn’t get help, because, I know this doesn’t make any sense, but I didn’t want to be seen as weak. So I pretended nothing had happened.

Then I broke down. I couldn’t take it anymore. I was so tired of feeling alone, so I started telling people my story. I got help. And it’s been a long, long process.

I don’t know where it ends, or who I will be when I get there, but I know it will be beautiful.

Where I am right now is beautiful.

I’ve started rebuilding myself piece by piece, bit by bit. And here I am today. My foundation is stronger now because it’s built on the assurance that I am a child of God, no matter how angry I once was at Him, He never left my side. He brought me back. He rescued me from me.

My identity is no longer founded on others, and I’m stronger now.

I am beautiful now.

 

 

 

 

A Rose By Any Other Name

How did you get all those scars?” is not a question you want to be asked by a three-year old. But it happened. To me. Today. I panicked.

Because how do you tell a preschooler, who still believes in magic and Santa Claus, life can be cruel? How do you tell a child there was a point in your life where you hated yourself so much, you wanted to die? You must choose your words carefully. You must pretend you are walking on glass.

I wanted to tell him:

I hide in the shadows, because in the right light, scars on my wrists become visible. And these darkened lines on my wrists are only the worst of what I’ve done to myself, because the rest of the lines of self-abuse are practically gone. Because when I cut myself, I never cut in the exact same place twice, and I only cut deep enough to draw blood, not deep enough to scar: blood reminds me that I am alive, and that’s all I wanted to feel. And I couldn’t have scars, because if I wasn’t beautiful without scars, how could I be beautiful with scars?

But that doesn’t mean my struggle is any less real. Because, once upon a time I had hundreds of self-inflicted cuts well-hidden beneath my clothing. My upper arms, abdomen, and upper legs constantly stung, and when they healed, I made them again. Because I thought I deserved the pain. I wear my scars proudly, but I still hide them. They serve as a reminder of where I’ve been, but I’m still afraid people won’t accept them. And I want to be loved.

And I fear that if people know that I used to trace the names my attackers called me into my skin, that’s how people would view me. And I can’t be viewed that way, so I hid those too.

And every place I cut was for a different reason. My arms: because I’m not strong enough. My abdomen: because I’m not skinny enough, and that’s where unwanted hands were. My legs: because I couldn’t run away from unwanted advances. And since I couldn’t admit I was sexually assaulted, how could I admit I was harming myself? 

But, there came a point when I needed people to know something was wrong. And I was never very good at asking for help, so I cut in places where people would see, and I cut deeper. The razor eventually traveled down my arm, towards my wrists, and I purposefully made the cuts on my legs look like I accidentally cut myself shaving. I needed help, but I couldn’t ask. Because strong people don’t ask for help, or so I thought, and I had been weak for far too long.

Even after the help came, I carried a paperclip in my pocket, because I was addicted to the sensation of metal running up my arm. That paperclip was like my security blanket, and I used it for far too long. And eventually, I gave that up too. And now I’m here, living my life, with only a few well-concealed scars remaining. But sometimes, the urge to revert back to old ways is great, so I use ice instead.

But, you can’t say that to a child. So, instead I told him:

“When I was younger, I was clumsy. I tripped and fell a lot, and sometimes I got cut. This scar on my hand is from when I tripped and grabbed onto a thorn bush. One of the thorns cut my hand.”

This answer satisfied him.

And it satisfies me.

Because even roses have thorns, and I want to be a rose.

Someday, I’ll be a rose.

Plan B

I wear more makeup on days that I can’t stand to look at myself in the mirror, hoping people won’t look at me and hate me as much as I hate myself. But at the same time, I’m hoping that somebody will hate me more, because than I won’t be the one left hating me the most.

It’s hard being a survivor. Anybody who says it’s easy is lying to you and probably themselves as well. It’s hard being a survivor, because even though I’m trying to heal, 90% of my being is telling me that I deserve to stay broken.

There are days when I feel like closing the door, collapsing in a heap on the floor, and putting myself in the washer with the worn clothes. Because that’s how I feel: dirty. I have lost the ability to wear white, because I am no longer pure. I am not red, but pink, because somebody mistook my purity to be theirs for the taking.  And I have been hung out to dry so many times before.

And no matter how many times I wash myself, I still feel dirty. Because the grime I’m carrying won’t come off without a power-washing with the water from above. In order for this Cinder girl to wear her Cinder dress, some magic needs to be worked in this body and mind.

It’s hard being a survivor when it’s easier to be the victim. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Atlas, it’s that I can hold the weight of the world on these shoulders because I am stronger than I think I am, and I’m not doing it alone.

And even though I can rock my superhero cape, I can’t help everyone. But, I can certainly try. My hands may be small, but you can bet that when the rain falls, I will be out there with my rain-boots on, hands outstretched, trying to catch all the falling tears. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching all those cheesy romance movies, it’s that rain can wash away all your fears if you just let it. After the rain comes the rainbow, and to me, that’s the most amazing thing: beauty after the storm.

And even though I break down over and over and over again, I’ve made it this far, which is a miracle. So don’t you dare tell me miracles don’t exist. Because I’ve seen it in the way the waves refuse to stop kissing the shore no matter how many times they’re sent away. I’ve seen it in the way the sun comes up in the morning and sets in the night to allow the moon to shine. I’ve seen it in the way a baby learns to walk, and how it gets back up no matter how many times it falls.

And even though I may not know all the words to my favorite songs, even though I talk too much or too little, even though my brain moves a mile a minute and my mouth can’t keep up, there’s a healing power in words. There’s a healing power in friendship.

I’ve done a lot of things wrong in this life, but I must have done something right. Because if wealth was based on friendships, I’d be the wealthiest person in the world.

 

Dear Fellow Cutters: A letter

Dear Fellow Cutters (And Those Who Aren’t),

I’m writing this letter because this is an issue that needs to be discussed. I want you to know that you are not alone even if it feels like you are.

And I know I’m quoting from other things I’ve written, but this needs to be talked about.

I know what it’s like to be tormented by inner demons, who are constantly telling you you’re not good enough, or pretty enough, or insert adjective here enough. I know what it’s like to be waging a war on the battlefield of your body where the enemy is nothing other than a darker version of yourself: two sides of the same coin that will never work in tandem. You’re trying to save yourself from yourself, which is the last person you should have to worry about, but is also your own worst enemy.

I know what it’s like to hate yourself so much that self-hate eats at your soul until you are unable to feel any emotion. I know what it’s like to feel as though you are not human, because let’s be honest: A human void of emotion is no human at all. So to cope with the numbness that we feel, we cut. Because for that one minute, when the warm blood is dripping from our skin, we are allowed to feel something, anything, which is better than nothing.

I know what it’s like to become addicted to this release. I know what it’s like to hide the scars from judging eyes and from those who don’t realize anything is wrong. Because, let’s be honest, we want to see the best in people, and we don’t want to believe people around us are hurting this badly. And we don’t know how to explain we are not trying to kill ourselves; we are trying to stay alive (because in that moment, when the razor of hate touches our skin, we are not thinking about suicide. It’s after we’ve stitched ourselves back up that those thoughts begin).

But I also know what it’s like to hit your lowest point: to look down and realize your skin is not your skin anymore. After years of being bloody from fighting last night’s battles, it’s become a puzzle to be put back together. It’s become a battlefield marked with the gravestone of those lost in the fight. it’s become a maze or a timeline; traceable lines mark the path you’ve walked, how far you’ve traveled. I know what it’s like to wonder how you’ve made it this far. I know what it’s like to be scared by the future because you didn’t think you’d make it to see today.

I know what it’s like to tear the Band-Aid off, to feel the pain, to fight the fight, to put down the razor. And it’s not easy. Every day I have to tell myself that I don’t need to pick up that razor: I am better than this. For three years I have been telling myself this, and it doesn’t go away, but it gets easier.

So, dear friends who are reading this: I understand. I understand that it is hard to stop. I understand that it’s an addiction, and a method people like us use to feel alive. But if you are trying to stop, or have beaten it, I am so proud of you! For the rest of you, keep fighting. Life is hard, but it is also so beautiful.