For most of my life, I have been on the outside looking in. I wasn't popular, probably not even memorable. I watched everyone else get what I wanted and be everything I wanted. I desired to feel a sense of strength and be strong—strong enough to stand up to my classmates making fun of me, strong enough to snare the attention of the boy I liked, strong enough to lead the group instead of following blindly behind it. But none of that happened. 

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Left to the darkness and gloom inside my own head. I made it through many nights listening to Joey Lawerance, "There's nothing my love can't fix for you, baby..." I can hear the song in my head. 

 

On the outside, I was going through the motions of life, acting like everything was okay, but in my mind, I was struggling to survive. I was miserable. I hid it so well that no one seemed to notice.

 

Boiling over, I gave into temptation and began to cut. Slice after slice, I found myself even more isolated than before. The man I was supposed to marry left me unable to handle my darkness. If he couldn't love me, how was I supposed to love myself?

 

There were some sketchy years. 

 

Desperate to find another avenue of expression before I took things too far, I began a journal. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. It was loud, hateful, and angry. I heard so many voices screaming that they wanted something better. But another voice shouted louder than all the others, saying, "You'll never get it."

 

Depression is like an unwanted friend, you don't want to make them feel as shitty as you do, but you would just give every last cent you had if they would just leave.

 

I swirled around in a long, dark hole, reaching into the abyss for someone to help me, and someone did. 

 

When you already think you are crazy, why not believe in a guiding presence you can't see? A presence that comforted me when I was scared encouraged me when I was down, and rocked me in their arms when I cried. 

 

Whether real or imaginary, that presence began to pull me from the darkness.