“You’re so skinny, Mary!”

I haven’t heard that in a while. As I type, an article titled “Thinner People Eat This Many Meals A Day” is open in my browser. For the first three years of college, I was skinny. Skinny enough that my twin sister admits that people would ask her if I had an eating disorder.

I didn’t—I believe my svelte figure could be contributed to a good metabolism, a bad vegetarian diet, and a little bit of exercise.

When people exalted my slenderness, I laughed it off, but inside, I knew they were right. I was thin. And I was one of the lucky ones. Without too much effort, my weight barely tiptoed over 110 pounds.

I never had to worry about what my arms looked like in sleeveless tops and committed the cardinal sin of fashion by wearing leggings as pants on a regular basis.

However, in the summer of 2014, something changed—maybe it was the emotions of my childhood dog dying, the imminent reality of senior year of college, or perhaps that my metabolism just gave up on me. Between May and December 2014 I gained somewhere between twenty-five to thirty pounds.

(Disclosure—I would probably not be considered overweight by most, and am still considered “small” by many—including a lovely middle age woman in the underwear section of my local Target.)

I can no longer fit into my size zero boyfriend style jeans that I loved so much my sophomore year of college. There are times that I feel like shit about my body, as if my whole identity and self worth rests on that pair of size two dark wash skinny jeans that are shoved somewhere in the bottom of a box in the basement.

“You’re so skinny, Mary!”

My friends and acquaintances said this as if it was a compliment, as opposed to stating the obvious. However, I do not believe my friends meant any harm in this statement. Their words were simply a reflection of the culture in which we exist—skinny is good, anything else is bad.

Weight is tricky to talk about. It is personal yet visible, and strangers judge other strangers on something as trivial as the composition of another’s body. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the average weight for an American woman over the age of twenty is 166.2 pounds and the average height is about 5 feet 3 inches, yet the images of womanhood perpetuated by popular media are of women who tower close to 6 feet tall, weigh less than 125 pounds, but still manage to have curves in all the “right” places.

“You’re so skinny, Mary!”

I don’t want to hear that again.

I don’t want to be judged on my physical characteristics. I don’t want people to tell me I am too thin or too big. Why am I worrying about what my arms look like in photographs? Why am I not good enough for myself at whatever weight I happen to be?

I am not defined by my weight. No one should be. The society we live in is toxic. It is one that tells girls and women that we are not good enough. That we never will be worth something, unless we fit into a certain size. I have no doubt that I, and many others, have internalized much of this self-hatred.

I think we can do better. I think I can do better.

I’m learning. I’m learning that vegetarians should eat more than bread and that fruits and vegetables are my friends. That the goal of exercise does not necessarily have to be weight loss.

I’m learning that I still can bare my arms if I want to. That there are jeans out there in sizes bigger than a size two and make my butt look fantastic, and if I feel like rocking a pair of leggings, I will.

I stared blankly at the screen. The silver reflection from the message lit up my face. It took a moment, and then I gave in to panic. My abusive relationship was following me.

No, no, no, no, no, I thought. I began to hyperventilate, and my chest felt like it was being crushed. This time, the panic attack was brought on by Mike. No surprise there.

By the time summer had started, I finally understood what he was doing to me. When he said if I stopped talking to him he wouldn’t love me anymore, I was rattled.

I needed him. He was everything. And that’s exactly how he wanted it.

The funny thing about being in an abusive relationship is you begin to accept the dysfunction. Soon you thrive off it. When he’s mad at you, your life ends and the only way to resuscitate it is to get back in his good graces, no matter what that entails.

When he mocks you until you cry, on some level you’re satisfied because you know you deserved it. When he grips your wrists so hard you can trace the shape of his hand days later, it thrills you. When he hits you for not wanting to kiss him, you understand.

I was defined by the toxicity of my relationship with him. He became the nucleus of my life. The moment I put my guard down for him, he became the puppeteer and I begged for him to take the strings.

I knew something was wrong exactly two days after I agreed to date him.

We didn’t speak for the entire day. I had a panic attack because he didn’t talk to me for the first day in months, but was using social media.

I had to claw at my arms until I calmed down, which was documented by the sharp red lines that graced my forearms the next day. In that moment I was aware I was getting myself into something I wouldn’t be able to handle.

But even before the first kiss, the first violation, or the first tear he had me in the palm of his hands. He was my first kiss and, in that same week he convinced me to go to third base with him, even though I begged for us to take it slow.

He convinced me if he didn’t finish, it wasn’t sex, it was just testing how it felt. After it was over, I sat in his bed shaking so hard I couldn’t re-hook my bra. Three weeks later, he took my virginity. I didn’t want to have sex.

A little over a week after that, he raped me for the first time.

I said ‘no’ multiple times, and he just told me to close my eyes until it was over. I was crying the whole time. I don’t remember the rest of what happened, it was blurry from that point on. After it was over, I went upstairs to throw up.

I knew it was rape. I looked up rape laws and different religious views and various cultural definitions of rape. It met every single definition. I didn’t even consider leaving him.

The next time it happened, I made it stop halfway through, and curled up in a corner across the room, chest heaving with despair. It happened countless occasions after, but after a while they all blended together. It would take too long to document the games and manipulation and psychological wars he waged.

In the beginning, it felt too good to be true. It moved at a pace too fast for me to handle, and it made me feel like something was wrong with me.

Every problem I had with myself, with life, and with people he promised to rectify. And it seemed he did. I was depressed, so he made me happy beyond belief. I had no self-esteem, so he made me feel like I deserved to be on top of the world. I had trust issues, so he proved he could be dependable.

Then he drained me for all I was worth, and I became an extension of him. He hurt me but it felt like true love. I was an easy target.

I’ve had anxiety as long as I can remember, having panic attacks that would engulf me since I was in kindergarten. I’m not sure when the depression started. I was always a serious, sensitive person. I had a habit of looking at things from a jaded perspective and feeling things too intensely, even if the situation didn’t command such a response.

The world always affected me too much and life was out of my control. I didn’t understand why I was wired the way I was, why my mind didn’t work the same as everyone else’s. Somewhere around sixth grade I went numb emotionally.

Seventh grade was when I first planned my suicide.

I opted for hanging, it seemed the least complicated. The idea flew out of my head quick enough. Seventh grade is also when I started getting harassed by my classmates for two years over my looks. That’s what led to the eating disorder.

I eventually got better, but only because I replaced binging and purging with only binging. And also because I started cutting. There was a certain addictive quality to mutilation of self. Every time I stuck my fingers down my throat, cut myself, and refused to eat for days I felt something.

For someone who was numb and drained and cold, being a masochist was the greatest thing that could ever happen. Every laugh was hollow, every conversation meaningless, every day spent in bed, physically moving was difficult beyond words, my body had a ten-ton weight on it perpetually.

But when I hurt myself, I was excited, it was exhilarating. I felt alive. I had an abusive relationship with Mike and myself.

It was dangerous and harmful and I didn’t care because that was the only time I felt something. And that lasted for years.

Every time I thought I might get better, I got worse again. I never asked for help; I was comfortable. My shell of anxiety and depression was my home. I knew how it worked. I was familiar with it. I was scared.

If I tried to get better and I failed, then that meant I couldn’t be better, and the prospect of that revelation was worse than living with my demons. And if I got better, if I knew what it was like to be happy and stable and normal, but got worse again… Well, that would make it all the more devastating. To know what it’s like to be on the other side, but to be stuck in the same place is a unique hell.

So, when Mike stumbled across me it was like hitting the jackpot.

Insecure, depressed, jaded, anxious, empty, desperate to feel something, to be something. He had his perfect doll to play with.

He once told me how his mother bought him a collection of amethyst, but, on the way to the car, he dropped them and all that was left were the shattered remains. Our relationship was like that, he said. Once it broke it could never be brought to the original state of beauty again.

I disagree about the beauty, but he was right about it breaking. Some relationships are not like that. Some are living and breathing and mold themselves as time and circumstance change into something strong and beautiful and resilient.

That wasn’t us. When he dropped me, he shattered me and us. It could not be repaired, nor would it ever be. That is because when he met me I wasn’t living.

My second plan for suicide was the summer I received that text. We had broken up, but I still based every moment of my day off him. He let me.

Mike controlled me with haphazard effort at that point. I was off the deep end. I slept two hours a night, maybe. I stopped eating. I mentally broke myself, using every opportunity to make myself feel as worthless as I knew I was, as he reminded me I was. I took breaks at work in my car, where I would have panic attacks that were building up throughout my shift.

Whenever someone touched me I jumped, so I stopped letting people touch me. My stability rested on a house of cards. My parents watched me crumble. They begged me to tell them what was wrong. I didn’t tell them about Mike, but I finally began to acknowledge to myself that he raped me and was emotionally and physically abusive.

And with that came another wave of trouble. One day was particularly bad, as I hadn’t been able to fall asleep the night before.

Mike was annoyed at me because I didn’t come to see him that week. He spent the morning reminding me of my worthlessness as a person, so I spent the morning crying.

I had to drive my sister somewhere, and as I began to back out of the driveway, she yelled for me to stop because a car was coming. I put the car in park and proceeded to sob and feel my throat constrict. I repeated “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over. She told me to go inside, and that she would drive herself.

I went inside and the anxiety began to control me. I was out of my body; my emotions were a tsunami that extended beyond my control. The waves of adrenaline, emotion, and hate hit me relentlessly and I wanted to die, I wanted it to stop.

I sat in my bathroom and took a pair of nail clippers and went to work on my forearm. It hurt more than I expected it to, and took off distinct rectangular patches of skin. My arm was a dizzying mix of scarlet and flushed flesh. I went into my kitchen and picked the sharpest knife I could find.

I sat curled in a little ball on the oak floors, considering slitting my throat. I imagined my family finding me.

I saw the blood, I felt the release that would come, and how much better everyone would be without me. I was scared about how it would hurt, and how much pressure I would need to get it done on the first try.

I tested part of my leg, and winced at the dull searing. Lots of pressure would be needed. I spent minutes trying to work up the courage, but it never came, since my sister came home.

Later that day I was driving alone on a winding road, with no traffic around. I was tired, so tired. I wanted to sleep forever. Just sleep and never wake up. So, I closed my eyes and doubled the speed limit. Finally, this was it. But, I got scared and at the last moment opened my eyes, just in time to avoid colliding head on with a bridge.

And then, something curious happened. In the beginning of my senior year of high school, I realized I liked one of my friends.

Matt had feelings for me for over a year, and waited for me through Mike. Matt was respectful, kind, understood me and my depression, and tried to help me.

He valued me for myself, and made me believe that I was really worthy of self-respect, love, and happiness. I’d never known that. Before we began dating I tried to fix myself, because I finally realized someone should not make you feel unworthy of life.

He convinced me to talk to my parents about my problems and to see a therapist. I started eating on a regular pattern, I went for runs, I slept for a healthy seven hours instead of alternating between sleepless nights and not leaving my room for days.

I forced myself to stop talking down to myself. I didn’t cut. I stopped talking to Mike. I stopped doing things I didn’t want to do that were harmful to me, and started doing good things because I deserved it. I stopped drowning in my thoughts and anxieties and worthlessness.

I finally had a reason to care about myself. I believed I was worth something. I was worth love.

While we dated I was the most stable I’d been in my entire life up to that point, and I really wish that was an exaggeration. For the first time in years I went for months without hurting myself in some way. I saw life as a good thing.

I felt emotions, I finally wasn’t numb. I stopped flinching when people touched me, and began to trust people’s intentions again. I stopped hating myself. My body was no longer heavy, no longer a prison, and I felt free, I felt light. I was lifted.

I started loving myself because of me, not because he loved me. He saw me as this beautiful, exquisite person, who was more precious than anything. He worked so hard, so so hard to make me believe it was true.

At first, when he treated me like I deserved, I didn’t know how to respond, because I’d never been exposed to a respect like that before.

It has been said that when a man violates a woman, he cuts off her wings, robs her of the ability to fly. The woman is grounded, trapped from the world she knows and loves by this horrible offense done to her. It begins to define how she lives.

The core of abuse is that the abused has a very free, very real choice of either remaining grounded and wingless, and abusing others, continuing the hate that was injected in her the first time he hurt her, or she can build her own wings and choose to overcome and learn to be open, loving and self-respecting.

I was dead and numb and Mike was dangerous and exciting and I felt adrenaline and fear and excitement. When you’ve been dehumanized, the world has a surreal quality, it’s as though you’re there but you don’t belong. Being scarred, dead, and barren in a thriving, breathing, growing environment is an extraordinarily twisted torture.

There is no coming to consciousness without pain. My chest was a hollow cave of crushed ribs and a numb heart. And my best friend gave me the tools to heal myself.

Matt showed me what happiness was, and how to feel it for myself. He became respect and patience, and was unwavering in his devotion to teaching me how to respect myself.

He was the first person who took the time to unravel the intricate nature of my darkness, understanding me and why I am the way I am, and how my past affected me. He taught me how to illuminate every crevice and corner, dusting the dirtiest parts of me and making them whole again.

I was damaged at best before I met Mike, but after him I was deflated, left hollow and empty and dead. When someone teaches you how to love yourself, there is no way to repay them. The greatest lesson to learn is how to live with yourself.

I always felt dirty in my own skin, like somehow I tarnished my body simply by housing my soul in it. I treated myself like such and Mike only confirmed this belief I held.

Now, now I am at peace with myself.

I may never be a bright, cheery person. I am serious and dark and lovely, and I am still learning. I’m still learning how to respect myself, and I’ve made mistakes learning. Because of this I’ve hurt Matt. And when you can’t love someone the way he deserves to be loved, you have to let him go.

So, when my third suicidal episode rolled around, I was surprised that he was the one to save me. This time it was cold and dark and the three a.m. sky was dull and lifeless. My hands shook as I unscrewed the screw holding the window screen to the frame.

When I finally got it loose I watched as the screen fell five stories, landing calmly on the frozen ground. That doesn’t look so bad, I thought. I sat on the windowsill, my legs dangling outside. I pictured myself falling, I wondered which way would make it hurt the least.

It wasn’t as scary as my other ideas. It was quick, easy, clean, guaranteed to work. It was probably a forty-foot freefall. I’m scared of heights, but the adrenaline rush of dread that came with being up high wasn’t there that night. Instead, there was only curiosity of what would happen next.

We were talking while this was happening, and Matt realized that something was wrong, so he called me. I was in such a frenzy I don’t remember most of our conversation, but he stayed on the phone with me for hours, and I fell asleep and woke up with him still on the line.

After that, things for me got better.

Every day is hard, and some days it still takes time for me to be able to get out of bed. I still am learning to manage my anxiety, fight my depression, and understand how to live with myself. Including all of this, and my past, I love myself, I love the skin I’m in, I’m happy and I really believe life is a good thing.

Matt is one of those rare people, the kind who never loses respect for someone, even after he stops loving them. The kind that cares for everyone, the kind that will do things just because it’s the right thing to do. It’s this gentle, sensitive nature which understands life isn’t always gentle which made him the perfect person to teach me how to be okay.

Letting go of someone you love just for them to be happy is never a light ordeal. We don’t talk anymore, and that’s okay. Because he taught me how to live, and when people you love leave, you have to hold them to all the good they’ve done for you.

I’m delicate, yet strong, I’m dark, but lovely. Sometimes, no matter what has tortured you in the past, or how dark life seems, all you need is a single person to teach you how to see the good in you.

That is was he taught me, because for the time we were together, he was the first that saw a light in me I didn’t know was there.

It’s 4 am. The sinews

in my legs are on fire and

my chest feels like it’s caving

in,

Like I’m being

pressed

to

Death.

Like I’m being interrogated

as a witch, when I know full well

that the witchcraft

doing this to me is coming

from somewhere buried deep within

and I don’t want to afflict

anyone else

with It.

It.

It.

It.

Why does It even begin?

The walls twist and spin, my heart races,

and my mind is the only thing

that outpaces it.

And   I.   Can’t.   Seem.   To.   Fucking.   Breathe.

My sick, slobbering, staccato mind wrings the muscles

in my abdomen, in my thorax,

in my gastrocnemii, (to put it medically)

while my vision wavers

and blurs.

I force myself to move, to stretch, to push

out anything deeper than the shallow breath held

in my lungs with each passing second.

I scroll through my instagram feed

searching for an escape.

Pretty landscapes, Pretty people,

Pretty.

Something prettier than this,

prettier than me.

Something whole or

Something that at least has the visage

of wholeness,

of put-togetherness,

because right now I feel

Broken.

This is new.

This poem is about my experiences dealing with Anxiety and Panic Attacks. They’re very new to me. Up until last semester, I had never had a panic attack, never felt what it was like to have crippling doubt about if I was normal, if this was normal, if I could control something like this. With the help of my friends, family, and the love of my life—my sweet and supportive girlfriend—I’ve been able to keep myself in a good place. Some days, it still hits me for no discernible reason. Some nights I wake up with cramps and attacks out of nowhere, like I described in this poem. I hope that by sharing my story, other people dealing with anxiety, especially those who are just finding out what it entails, can find comfort in knowing that someone else knows what they are going through. Anxiety doesn’t define you. There is always a way to combat your anxiety and you should never stop searching for what it is that makes you feel grounded and safe!

Thank you so much to Emily Covais, Dana Sauro, and Kyle Marchuk for your efforts in partnership with Active Minds Loyola, Maryland Chapter.

The tradition of weekly Wednesday night dinners in Athens evolved from my family. It all started in Calvary, Georgia. For as long as I can remember,  Family Night has been a weekly tradition of putting all work aside, relaxing, cooking amazing food, and gathering family together around the table.

My older cousins Bradley Jones, Chaz, and Emily Oliver originally got Family Night started in Athens when they first came to the University of Georgia. They began hosting weekly dinners and inviting their closest friends.

Eventually, the group grew to include boyfriends, girlfriends, roommates, neighbors, and friends of friends. It was also a great way of meeting new people because everyone was so welcoming. When I came up to Athens to attend UGA, I also joined and gained a whole new group of lifelong friends.

Although most of us weren’t related, we still considered ourselves a family. Food can do that to people.

Eventually, it became a much larger group of friends that came from the University of Georgia, North Georgia College, Athens Technical College, and even graduates that were still living around the Athens area.

Most of us have known each other for years, but meeting new people wasn’t uncommon and they usually returned and were welcomed back with open arms. On average, we had about 15-20 members attending Family Night every week.

We would take turns hosting and cooking dinners. It wasn’t a pizza take out kind of thing. We’re talking about home-cooked meals y’all. It was definitely a challenge cooking for such a large group of people, but time spent with “family” was well worth it and so was the food!

When these sorts of events happened, we went all out. All the family members prepared and brought their best home cooked meal for the feast. We even got really competitive on who could cook the best meals and celebrated special occasions such as Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Around Christmas, we would dress up in our tackiest attire and take a picture to send to our own families to put on the refrigerator.

Family night was a great way to drop everything and come together to keep in touch with friends and family when times got busy. It was the one-day of the week where we could just relax and catch up. If we didn’t have this once a week, I probably wouldn’t have even seen my family or closest friends as much as I did and that’s something I truly treasure.

If someone couldn’t attend, we made sure they were sent a take-home plate. Because let’s face it, everyone has to eat during a stressful test or project and there’s no better meal than a home-cooked one prepared with love from their “family.”

“Is it okay if I bring my dog?” The answer was always yes! After all, dogs are family too. They were brought over to enjoy company from the humans as well as other furry friends. Our pets weren’t left out of the scrumptious meals either. They were also served part of our feast or as my granddad, Big Daddy, used to say, “the crumbs under the table.”

Because most of us were college kids, we typically didn’t eat the best food. Eating out was our go-to because it was a quick and easy fix.

Family night was a way to have a good home-cooked meal at least once a week and reunite with our friends. It is one of my best college memories.

Now that I’ve graduated, I plan to continue to carry on this tradition in Atlanta and wherever life takes me. Cooking is more than just about eating: it is something that ties people together.

It doesn’t get much better than gathering with friends and family, meeting new people, cooking great meals, making new memories, and passing on our beloved family tradition! Cheers!

It has been about two years since I came off my anti-anxiety medication. Well, it’s more like I was forced off. When you become homeless, you lose all of the benefits of a home and parents, including health insurance. But, that’s another story. This is the story of my severe anxiety and how I’ve managed it.

A few days after I didn’t have my pills, I suddenly remembered how much I needed them. There were so many things that sent my thoughts through the roof, and I swore I was going to die. It was an absolute nightmare of a sensory overload.

I had to check my shoes to make sure they were double-knotted because, if I didn’t, I would trip crossing the street and get run over. I had to make sure when I plugged something into an outlet that it was in all the way, otherwise I would start an electrical fire and die. I had to make sure every single zipper on my book bag was closed, otherwise everything would fall out when I was crossing the street, and everything would fall down the sewer drain. Honestly, I thought I could relate to Aunt Josephine from Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events.

I had two anxiety attacks in the five days I was homeless.

I almost went back to the abusive home I had been thrown from, because at least there I would be medicated. And it was with that thought – going back to being abused just so I could get medication – that I realized I needed to reevaluate a lot of things about myself.

A few days turned into a few weeks. I was still wired with fear of any and everything going wrong at any and every moment. But, nothing ever did.

My behavior was still a little on the obsessive. It’s probably the main reason why my stomach and chest always felt tight. Back then (and now) I would get hours from my job, and I would calculate exactly how much I would be getting paid for that week and the next, and I would write out a list of things I needed to spend on three checks at a time. It created (and still creates) a lot of unneeded pressure on myself, because I am always in fear that one week something will happen and I won’t be able to work. You get the idea.

But this small obsession has allowed me to be more successful as an adult. I have the ability to budget for things and  to know ahead of time where all of my money needs to go.

The weeks turned into months, and, would you believe it, nothing happened. I wasn’t falling in the streets, I wasn’t burning to death, and, you guessed it, I wasn’t losing everything in my book bag while crossing the street.

But, the anxiety of it possibly happening was always there. By now, I had gotten really good about deflecting the tight stomach and chest feeling by entertaining something else.

I would sing. I would whip out my phone and play a game. I would read something. I’d listen to the grossest, mushiest, and lovey-dovey-iest song I had on my music playlist, and I’d find a way to giggle about it. Holy shit, I was gonna be fine.

And here we are. Two years later. My greatest deflector now is my fiancé.

I was so embarrassed when I told him that I had a mental illness, but he couldn’t connect the pieces as to why I felt that way. He just didn’t get it. I was embarrassed because I wanted to fit that unattainable image of “perfect girl,” and “perfect girls” don’t have anxiety. He made me realize that I was already perfect with all of my quirks.

Once I got my life back in working order, there were many times where I could have afforded the anti-anxiety medication I needed. But, I thought it was weak to go running back to the pills because it would make me feel better. I’m also extremely stubborn, and I told myself I could fight off the feeling I got without the pills.

My fiancé has become so tuned to my responses that he knows I’m getting overwhelmed long before I do. Sometimes, I’ll be writing at the dinner table and he’ll come and take my hands away from whatever it is I’m doing, and put them on his chest and breathe.

That’s it. I’ll copy his breathing, and realize that my own had been shallow before. I’ll feel his heart thumping, and, holy shit, is that a soothing feeling. He’ll let go after 20 seconds, say, “there,” give me a forehead kiss, and go back to what he was doing. And it works. Every. Single. Time.

I’ve realized that I was right about not running back to taking pills because it was easy. There are so many other alternatives to anti-anxiety medication, and I never thought I’d be marrying the best one.

Wake up. Roll over to turn off the alarm only after hitting snooze for the fifth time. Check Instagram. Scroll through and live vicariously through fashionistas in California. Check Snapchat. Oh, a rogue camel in a desert from username الشباب وجديدة ? Good. Check Email. “150 Ways You Could Be Kidnapped Via Facebook” article. Thanks, Mom.

By then, you realize you have approximately twelve minutes to get ready. You spring out of bed, brush your teeth, throw on some clothes, tame your hair, forget deodorant, and grab a granola bar as you run out the door.

Who can relate to mornings like this?

Don’t be afraid to raise your hand. My first couple years of college were shamefully filled to the brim with similar baskets of shambles. I did not realize the extent to which this mindless procrastination was hurting me.

Scientifically speaking, it is a facet of our survival instincts to stay in bed and avoid “adulting.” Referred to as a “negativity bias,” many of us subconsciously suffer from an irrational fear of immediate failure following the decision to rise and face the world. It is caused by an unrealistic, out-of-focus perception nourished by humanity’s worst enemy: fear. It is not quite as simple as procrastination or laziness. No wonder mornings get a bad rep.

John Milton writes in Paradise Lost, “The Mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” Imagine that our lives are Pandora stations. When we begin our day chaotically, we are choosing the Skrillex station. Yikes. The rest of our day is consequently filled with related, stressful music. When we begin our day brightly and confidently, it is filled with music that feeds our spirit and exercises positive psychology.

I learned that skipping breakfast, sleeping in too late, intensely stressing over responsibilities, doubting myself, and approaching the day too quickly and negatively in turn painted ugly colors on my daily canvas. Think puke green and spots of paper bag brown.

I was depressed, filled with anxiety, and not living the life I wanted to live.

When I finally understood the importance of self-love in the middle of college, my attitude about mornings changed dramatically. In a holistic sense, how I altered my morning routine transformed the harmony of my entire life. The transformation was radically visible and it is the best thing I have ever done for myself (besides letting myself eat cheese whenever I want, in the name of self-love).

These days, most of my mornings are comprised of healthy breakfasts, journaling, meditation, daily devotionals, fitness, and overall positive channeling using a variety of methods. When I tune my thoughts to a positive radio wave, I experience a consistent flow of sunny positivity throughout the entire day. I’m talking about amplified productivity, creativity, and optimism: the ultimate life hack.

I challenge YOU to take the first step to improve your mornings.

You can begin with one of the most simple and beneficial exercises I have put into practice. Spend five to ten minutes creating a list of things in the world that make you happy. Some samples from my list include: quality family time, boat rides, perfect avocados, queso, sunflowers, fresh fruit, baby animals wearing diapers, cookouts, sunshine, and Jesus.

Be as specific as possible, for it is often the little things that truly mean the most. Train your mind to remember, every morning, why it is worth it to wake up in the first place.

When you create your own sunrise, you become an unstoppable force of positivity. Don’t invite negativity into your life. It’s your party, so make it colorful, fabulous, and one to remember.

Everyone has regrets: something you should not have done, or maybe something you should have. Whether that means a hook up that should have never happened or not going on that trip to Europe, we all have them. My biggest regret, however, is one that continues to haunt me. I wanted to make sure people understand that they are not alone when they face such emotional issues. I want to share my mess that has become my message.

When I was six years old, my mother had to start going to the hospital. I never thought anything of it. She was sick, so she would get better. That was what happened to people who were sick. My six-year-old brain couldn’t understand that cancer was not your every day cold.

The hospital was boring and no place for someone my age. I did not want to be there. All I wanted to do was play and have fun. I wanted to be with my friends. Why did I have to be stuck there? Why me? Why was my family not like everyone else?

My mom was always sleeping when we were in the hospital. This chapped-lipped, bald-headed woman was not my mother. This woman silently staring at me with glazed brown eyes was a stranger to me. My mother was fun-loving. She had beautiful, brown hair. She was not this woman who lay in a pale, blue hospital gown, constantly surrounded by men and woman in white coats.

So, I left her alone in her hospital bed with my dad. My mom suffered while I decided to play with the nurses instead. They wanted to make me laugh. They wanted to play with me.

I was more concerned with my own happiness than realizing that this visit at the hospital might be our last.

And, unfortunately, one night it was. I can so clearly remember my dad pulling my sister and I into his room and telling us mommy had passed away last night. My sister immediately began to cry. I did not. I did not understand. What did he mean she was not coming back? She was my mother. Where had she gone?

I had wasted my last moments with my mother and with people I will never, and have never, seen again. How could I have done that to my poor mom? Or even my dad? They are battling a life-taking disease together, and I was just a stupid, attention-seeking girl. I do not even remember my last words to her.

What kind of daughter am I to have done that? – This phrase was constantly ingrained in my head.

So, I became a devoted daughter to my father and built up a huge emotional wall. Everything I did was for him. I wanted to make him proud in order to make up for the disgrace I had done to my mother. Every club I joined, every position I ran for was all for him to love me and be proud of me. I only had one biological parent left, and I was determined to get it right this time.

I was a woman consumed. “Do it for your father. Daddy would hate to see you do badly on this test. How could you disappoint him like that? He would want you to be president of your class. Why didn’t you push harder?” So, I pushed. To be better.

Maybe, I would think to myself, if I was busy enough I could escape these feelings.

I was wrong. I had to constantly tell myself, “Stay strong. Do not let them see how this affects you.” I told myself that everyday. Every counseling session. Every time someone called my step-mom my real mom. Every stupid “your mom” joke. I held back tears.

It continued to bother me, but I had never been truly affected by it until I started college. It started out like any other school; I became super involved and still hoped to make my dad proud. However, college had introduced me to something I had never experienced before: the power of alcohol.

Alcohol was my ultimate escape. It started to become pretty prevalent in my life, as it does with most college students. It made me feel fun and alive. Yet, “Blackout Annabelle” was not fun like other people. I did not do stupid things and make people laugh. “Blackout Annabelle” finally had no more boundaries and could truly express my fears and my biggest regret.

 I was stretched thin, just as I was the rest of my life, but the alcohol made me break down.

My friends in college were the first people to truly get my full story. My true self was revealed; there was no turning back. They discovered that I hated myself for not caring enough for my mother in her last hours. I hated the fact that cancer treatments can cure some but leave some to die. I hated that my sister and I might be next, and the same thing might happen to my future family.

This was the first time I was honest with my friends and myself. No counselor or adult had been able to break down that wall. Unfortunately, it was alcohol-induced. All the same, I woke up the next morning feeling relieved. I had, I guess you could say, officially confessed my sin, my big regret.

I honestly still fight these feelings. It is a constantly battle. However, I have come to terms with the fact that I need to be more open with my friends and, mostly, myself.

I need to stop trying so hard to make up for something I cannot fix. I can no longer hide these underlying feelings. I cannot battle this alone and let it develop into something more serious.

I have learned to channel my sadness and regret through Relay For Life. I run and raise awareness about cancer. There, I am surrounded by people who have suffered just as I have. They understand and support me. I am able to make my father proud in an organization that supports the memory of my mother.

I can share my story and work towards a cause that ensures this regret will not happen to any more daughters. I could not be more thankful for everything that they have done for me.

People who love and care about you surround you, whether you realize it or not. The hardest part is admitting it. Once you do, you have that confidant who will help you out of the dark and into the light.

I honestly do not know where I would be without my friends. They know every flaw and every regret I have; and yet, they still stand by my side and pick me up when I’m down. I believe that they were sent to me by my mom, as her way of saying, “I forgive you. Now, forgive yourself.”

The main point of this story is forgive yourself. A life filled with regret is no life at all. Be true to yourself, emotionally and physically. Happiness will find you if you are willing to find it.

With Halloween behind us, people with mental illnesses were reminded that our society still thinks mental illnesses are a joke. Last year, costumes like the infamous “Ana Rexia” were criticized on Twitter for making light of a deadly eating disorder. This year, I saw a costume that is the most appalling thing I have ever seen.  Walmart was selling a “suicide scar” adhesive, complete with a gash presumably engraved by a razor blade.

As someone who has struggled with multiple mental illnesses and has attempted suicide as a result, I know the suffering that causes suicide attempts. I also know that it will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Suicide is not just the result of a bad breakup or bullying; it is often caused by an accumulation of pain that kindles in one’s mind years before being set aflame.  For some, it is planned out; for me, it was impulsive. That is what terrifies me; I did not experience the warning signs that professionals talk about in seminars. Yet, every day, I live with the knowledge that I tried to end my own life.

For me, mental illness and suicide are not a joke. But I do not ask for trigger warnings: not for my classes and not for the media.

I understand that it is not society’s job to coddle me with bold-faced labels and alternative lessons. I understand that I must develop my own coping skills that do not interfere with the lives of those around me.

Instead of asking my friends not to engage in diet-talk (I am also recovering from an eating disorder) for instance, I will change the subject or take a walk. I have never requested that my professors give me alternate assignments when suicide or another aspect of mental illness is being discussed because it’s often an essential part of the lesson plan. I still must learn and engage in the same activities as my peers in order to earn my degree – regardless of my history of mental illness.

While I am not a proponent of ever-present trigger warnings, blatantly making a joke about people killing themselves is horrific and inhumane. Tip-toeing around delicate topics is different from understanding that mental illnesses are not funny and should be taken seriously. It is important to openly discuss suicide, self-harm, abuse, eating disorders, and other taboo topics associated with mental illnesses. These open discussions may upset some people, but making an illness into a Halloween costume is even more disgusting. A line must be drawn between political correctness and basic human decency because it seems as if our society is losing its humanity.

Costumes like this are reminders of the countless days spent running scissors across my thigh as a means to stop my mind from racing. They are reminders of months spent in treatment, lost friendships, and my newest fear that if I keep a pen open during a lecture, I will unconsciously dig it into any bare flesh to relieve anxiety. This is what people are mocking when they dress up as mental patients; the constant fear that I have the power to hurt myself and that I might use that power at the first sign of discomfort.

Let me start with this: do not include your daughter in your divorce. Do not include your daughter in your divorce. Do not include your daughter in your divorce.

Now we can proceed.

I’m not going to discuss the events. I’m not going to discuss my feelings toward the events. I’m not going to discuss the shambles of a failing-after-twenty-five-years family.

Instead we’re going to talk about depression.

Everyone calls depression a “shadow” or “monster” or, as my minister puts it, “the big black dog.” But it’s not actually like that. Depression is the cousin who you see every once in a while, depending on how close you two are. Depression offers the comfort of familiarity for a time, until you two stop getting along of course.

My cousin and I rarely saw each other growing up, separated by 390 miles and awkward family tensions. But when all of…this? unfolded, she became my best friend. She knows my family – it’s small and we’re all each other has. So naturally I would team up with her. But when we were younger, we’d anticipate each other’s company like a dog for his owner after a long day’s work, except we became cats after a few hours and the claws came out and home we went.

This is depression.

So let’s return to that divorce thing. When you’re twenty-one, you’d think your parents’ divorce wouldn’t affect you the way it would if you were five. But the problem is, a five year old doesn’t know anything and thus isn’t included in the conversations. No one wants the five-year-old to think that Daddy is an abusive alcoholic, no one wants the five-year-old to know that Mommy had an affair – so why the twenty-one year old? Just because she understands the word “divorce” doesn’t mean she has to understand the underlying reasons for it.

Which brings us to this morning. When I was in the car with my best friends in the world. When I was in charge of driving us the seven hours it takes to get home from my grandparents’. When it took all I had to not swerve the car and hit a tree because my cousin was back.

(Aside: not my actual cousin, she’s wonderful)

I can’t explain why or how depression comes back the way it does, but it does. I know Mother had texted me regarding Father, sharing some things I really didn’t need to know but it was also related to me so all in all I had to be included. But all in all, the texts triggered the depression, which basically tried to push me off the cliff and I was holding on like Mufasa as Scar released him to the wildebeest stampede.

Heh. That’s actually really accurate.

Point is, I choked down lunch, crawled through Walmart, had my boyfriend open my energy drink because I just couldn’t bring myself to, and tried to cheer up with our custom road trip playlist. I’m not sure what did it, but somewhere in there I was able to choke out a laugh and managed to pull myself back up.

I told you I wasn’t going to talk about my feelings toward the divorce. That’s not what this is.  This is about a crippling (cliché, I know) disease that is triggered by my feelings toward the divorce. My brain spins with questions; is it adultery or alcoholism or abuse or hatred or disgust or all of the above and more? And when circling my thoughts, digging for answers or even a sliver of my broken hope, the depression tugs at my sleeves and at my heartstrings, begging for the attention I willingly give. Yes, I do miss it. Yes, I do crave it. Yes, sometimes I neglect to take my anxiety medication because I like the panic attack. But in this particular instance, when I was responsible for three lives for the next seven (ended up eight) hours, it was not the time to allow myself to break down.

My boyfriend will put it like this when we’re in public and he needs to panic: “I need to be okay right now.” I give him flack for it because I want him to feel safe and comfortable, but then I turn around and do the exact same thing. Later I tell him about what was going on during lunch, but I brush it off like it was no big deal and there’s absolutely no mention of the suicidal thoughts. So while I want to break down, I need to be okay right now.

And I think that’s how my parents feel. I don’t think they realize the effect they’re having on me by throwing me into this during my second-to-last semester of college. My grades are dropping and I’m not 100% certain it’s because I’m not studying enough. You just can’t take someone who is mentally unstable and throw rocks at them. The glass façade shatters and leaves shards everywhere which the person then steps on do you see my point?

 I’m not stressed or troubled or sad or whatever I probably should be given the circumstances of my family. I’m empty.

The only time I’ve cried regarding it was because I was worried about my dog and how he’ll feel. That’s it. I’ve wanted to cry, I’ve wanted to panic, but all that comes is discomfort in my stomach and a few choice words. And apparently now potential suicide risk. But no tears.

There’s really no good way to end this, but I feel like I’ve said what I needed to say. I have my family at college and my family at church. I have my best friends and I have my cousin. Starting tomorrow I’ll have my dog for a week. I am safe and I am loved, not that those thoughts help the depression at all. But they’re something.

This feels like the worst ending in the history of endings, but the story is not over yet. Philippians 1:6

I don’t think anyone understands mental illness. Even if you’ve seen a friend after they’ve finished up having a panic attack or experience fairly severe anxiety yourself. And that’s not to discredit or invalidate whatever feelings you yourself may have sometimes.

But this feeling. It’s like a drop of ink into water. It slowly and seductively spreads across my mind like a blanket of mist. So quiet I don’t even realize it. But once it’s settled there is no missing it.

I instantly become completely filled with grey and any idea of wiping it out of my head is deemed impossible. To rid my brain of these thoughts after they’ve settled is something that’s never been done for me. Thoughts like no man will ever love you, you are disgusting, you are stupid, you are worthless, and that no matter how hard you try, success will never come to someone as pathetic as you.

As the episode goes on, the thoughts get worse.

I purposely go look in the mirror just so that I can see how pathetic and humiliating I truly am. The easy solution is to turn the bathroom lights off and sit in the fetal position. But this soon proves a mistake as the darkness of my mind and the complete lack of vision combine, and I can almost see the thoughts racing through my mind in front of me.

My body begins to physically react to the negative thoughts. It’s no longer just crying, it’s muted moans. Like maybe if I focus hard enough, and cry loud enough, I can force the thoughts out of my mind. But there’s no luck.

I gather my strength to make it back to my bed, but the episode continues. My brain is pounding against my skull, and my solution is to start slamming my fist against my head. Though it doesn’t help push out the thoughts, the physical pain becomes a distraction for a moment. That hint of physical pain and the distraction it brought from my mental agony sparks another idea. I latch my fingernails into my forearm, a sweet spot for me where a scar resides from past abuse from almost a year prior that involved a knife. After about ten seconds, I release my grasp and am thankful for the relief that comes with.

After several repetitions, I begin feeling exhausted.

The amount of energy that has been exerted throughout the episode is more than my brain typically deals with in a day. I become sleepy and my eyes puffy, heavy, and still streaming with tears. The bad thoughts are still present in my head but going down. They’re settling into my brain deep down where I typically prefer to keep them. But always on high alert, ready to seep out any opportunity they get.

It’s over. It’s passed. The tears are pooled in the corners of my eyes, where I’m too lazy to wipe them away. I’m going to rest, and hope and pray that this doesn’t all happen again tomorrow.