It’s February, 2015.
I’m sitting in my bedroom,
Looking at my arms and thighs.
Looking at the red lines I come to realize I feel no pain,
But yet I’m crying.
Crying at the fact that four months ago
I promised it would be the last time.
Crying at the fact that the demons were back and this time
I wasn’t strong enough to fight them off.
Crying at the fact the blood flowing from me is
Staining my purple polka-dot sheets.
Fast forward, it’s October, 2015.
I’m lying in a hospital bed,
Being questioned by a Psych doctor.
He asks,
“Is this the first time you’ve ever tried to end your life?”
“Have you ever wanted to harm those around you?”
“Is there anyone else in your family that also suffers from mental illness?”
But I can’t form a response,
I’m too focused on the blood streaming from my wrists
Staining the white hospital bed sheets.
Fast forward four hours.
A hospital aid is pushing me in a wheelchair.
My body is shaking due to the cold and anxiety rushing through me.
Thirty minutes later I’m sitting in a dark room,
My roommate going on about how she’s been here for the
Past three months.
I wake up sweating and shaking.
I could feel his weight on me still,
Feel his hot and heavy breath,
His words running through my mind
“No one will ever find out”.
I feel my throat start to choke on the words and I whisper
Under my breath, for him to get off of me.
I feel the tears start to stream down my cheeks-
I hadn’t had the nightmare since the past December.
I walk into the bathroom,
Lock the door behind me and reach to turn the faucet on,
Wash the mascara from under my puffy red eyes.
I get back into bed and find the sheets are rough on
My skin,
I turn to the wall and start to pick off the green peeling paint.
Six hours later I’m sitting on a bench
pushing egg whites around on my plate.
Trying to make it look like I am enjoying the breakfast the
Nurse ordered for me.
I see the other patients eating except for one-
His gaze follows me as I sit at the table.
I later find out his name is Jared-
Little did I know he’d be my rock for the next two weeks while we
were in the psych ward.
Fast forward, it’s November,
My first day back at school.
I’m greeted with half hearted hellos,
And strange looks that ask the question
Of where I have been?
As time goes on, the days blend together,
Joining in an endless blur of depression and tears.
I was put into an Intensive Outpatient Program
Where I spent the next seven months learning how to
Rebuild myself and my family.
Here I am today
Contemplating the question on who I am
Based off of my life, and what I have been through.
And I’m here today to tell you that I am
The girl who lives with chronic depression,
As well as the girl who has learned how to smile back at herself
When she looks in the mirror.
I am the girl with anxiety so bad that my shaking hands
Make it hard to take a drink of water.
And I am also the girl who tells those who are struggling around her,
That shaking hands doesn’t mean that you’re weak,
But instead that you are still alive and fighting.
I am the girl with ADHD,
And I also am the girl who sees a future for herself again.
I am the girl with a personality disorder, and I am also the girl
Who has walked through hell and back.
I am the girl who is mending
The damaged parts of herself back together.
I am the girl who stands up for those and what
She believes in.
I am the girl who has been missing from herself the
Past six years due to a mental disorder.
I am a writer.
I am a violinist.
I am a fighter.
But most importantly when I am asked who I am as a person
Based off of my experiences,
I can proudly say:
I am Rylie Rose
r.h. (September 15, 2016)