A Chapter of My Story

I've been feeling lately as though I need to record something on here.

A chapter of my story that you may not know.

It's not lighthearted and it won't make you laugh, but it's a part of who I am.

It starts back in 2004.

Middle school was not the prime of my life. In fact it was far from it. 

I hated going, I refused to get out of bed each morning, and I took it all out on my family. 

Sunday nights were especially dismal, because then I was facing the imminence of an entire week.

So one Sunday, and I remember this quite clearly, I was practicing piano in the kitchen.

 Why was I practicing piano in the kitchen you ask?

We were getting our house remodeled 

(this isn't just a fun fact, but rather an important part of the story). 

So I was sitting there practicing, dreading the week ahead when the thought came into my head that life would be a lot easier if I weren't alive. I wouldn't have to go to middle school. I wouldn't be making my family miserable. And from what I learned at church, the afterlife seemed much more appealing than real life. 

And so I saw a knife on the counter (in the kitchen) and it occurred to me that I could use it. 

Now this is where you might stop reading, because it's hard to read. Just as it still - almost 10 years later - is hard for me to type. But the story goes up from here, and there's a reason I'm sharing this. 

Gratefully, I scared myself. I went up to my parents, told them what I'd just thought and they recognized the need for professional help. So I started talk therapy, which led to a psychiatrist and medication, and then to regular visits with a psychologist. At first I was terrified of talking to someone about what was going on. How was I supposed to explain it and how were they supposed to understand? And how would reliving the experience while we talked about it make it any better? I was also terrified of starting medication. I didn't want to start taking a medication that I would have to take for the rest of my life. And they were telling me about side effects, and dosages, and I didn't understand any of the medical terminology. 

But things slowly got better. It wasn't immediate but things started looking up. I leveled on medication, psychologist visits became routine, and I learned skills I needed to head off and combat my depression and anxiety. 

Still to this day I take medication daily and understand how it is needed to compensate for a chemical imbalance in my body. I still visit with a psychiatrist and a psychologist and am continually learning about myself and learning ways to improve myself. 

So the other day, I found this picture of myself I'd never seen before.

Then I started thinking. 

What would I tell younger me? What advice would I have for the little girl in the picture?

I'd tell her to hang in there. Keep holding on. Never give up. Life is worth fighting for. 

Sure some days are just the worst, but others are simply the best. 

Don't lose faith in yourself. Don't lose faith in your Heavenly Father. 

Keep going. Keep trying.

And though some people may not understand this, 

I wouldn't do anything to change the road ahead for her.

Those experiences are a part of me, as much as my brown hair and hazel eyes are a part of me. 

Those experiences have shaped me into the person I am today. 

And most of all I'd tell her that things will get better.

The other week when I was meeting with my psychologist, I told her about two positive experiences I'd had that week, where I was proud of how I'd responded, but then one negative experience where I wasn't thrilled with how I'd responded. 

She listened. (She always does).

But then she pointed out all the progress I wasn't accounting for. 

She pointed out how I'd done things I would never have been able to do before. 

And she told me she was proud of me.

I began to realize she was right.

I had improved.

Then when I was driving home Brave came on the radio, followed immediately by Roar. 

And I smiled and sang as loud as I could (while still driving safely).

Because now most days are good days. 

I don't dread getting out of bed in the morning. I don't wish my life away. Sure, some days my depression rears it's head, and those days are hard, but I've learned to better handle them.

I've learned that despite all the ups and down, life is worth living. 

Life is worth enjoying.

"Whatever your struggle, my brothers and sisters—mental or emotional or physical or otherwise—do not vote against the preciousness of life by ending it! Trust in God. Hold on in His love. Know that one day the dawn will break brightly and all shadows of mortality will flee. Though we may feel we are “like a broken vessel,” as the Psalmist says, we must remember, that vessel is in the hands of the divine potter. Broken minds can be healed just the way broken bones and broken hearts are healed. While God is at work making those repairs, the rest of us can help by being merciful, nonjudgmental, and kind."

-Jeffrey R. Holland