Growing up, I was always taught that bragging was bad. My parents used to say people who brag are only doing it to make up for something they are missing within themselves. I grew up, keeping my mouth shut.

Hearing the kids gloat and strut around showing off their near-perfect test score, while I sat there looking at my perfect score with discontent. 

I Am Proud 

I am amazing

Yes, I mean to brag

No, I don’t want to deny it

I want to tell the world, tell my world about it.

Because I have worked so hard

And have endured so much 

That I deserve to say 

I Am Proud and 

I Am Amazing

I sat there, five, in the hospital as they told my parents my sister would not make it. 

I sat there, six, my mom and dad with my sister in the hospital where she had been interned.

I sat there, seven, at the hospital every other weekend to visit my sister who had just been diagnosed with cancer on top of all her other problems.

I sat there, eight, jealous of all the other kids who had their parents with them at all times.

I sat there, nine, with my parents still going in and out of the hospital with my sister. 

I sat there, ten, not understanding why everything had to happen to me. 

I sat there, eleven, watching my mom almost get deported.

I sat there, twelve, writing letters to immigration officers, one from each family member because no one else knew how to write. 

I sat there, thirteen, wishing I could die and make all the bad feelings go away.

I sat there, fourteen, hating everything about myself and how I looked.

I sat there, fifteen, drinking behind my parents back.

I sat there, fifteen and a half, on the bathroom floor after shoving my fingers down my throat. My lunch in the toilet. 

I sat there, sixteen, getting diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder. 

I sat there, sixteen and a half, rolling a joint between my fingers. 

I sit here, seventeen, writing from Cal State San Marcos after being accepted into the prestigious nursing program here. 

I sit here, a survivor, living and breathing another day. 

I Am Proud and I Am Amazing

I was three days shy of my fifth birthday when my sister was born. It wasn’t until two days after my birthday that my parents noticed something was terribly wrong with her. The pink hue of a little newborn’s face was gone, and replaced with an icky shade of yellow. She had been diagnosed with microvillus inclusion disease, a disease with a one in more than a million chance of happening since both parents would have had to have a rare gene mutation. She was in and out of the hospital for years, after getting a small intestine, liver, and pancreas transplant all before the age of one. Little me couldn’t understand what was going on, I knew my sister was sick but I didn’t realize it would grow to affect me so much. It was years before I came to terms with the fact that the way I was conditioned to think wasn’t normal, but it was okay because it wasn’t my fault. I think me playing the blame game was what really damaged me the most. I was always trying to find someone to blame, whether it was myself, “God,” or my sister. But really, it wasn’t her fault either, she didn’t ask to be born that way, she didn’t consciously choose to be sick, and that took me so many years and heartaches to finally understand. 

It was about three months after my eleventh birthday when it happened. Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any worse, my mom told me how she might have to go away for a while because the police had found her. Though I would later find out that it wasn’t just any police, but the immigration police. No one wanted to tell me directly, but I was the only one who knew how to write and translate to English, and God knows that my parents didn’t have enough to pay anyone to do it besides me. I had to write letters from my family, begging them to not deport my mother because she was such a wonderful and hardworking person. I spent so many sleepless nights, stressed out and worried because I didn’t know if the next day was going to be the last one I could spend with my mom. I really should’ve been outside playing or doing any other “normal” twelve-year-old things. I was forced to miss out on so much. I felt so jealous of the other kids, being so carefree and just happy. I had worry lines by the time I was thirteen, and they just kept getting worse and worse. I wanted to kill myself. I mean, I hadn’t really realized it until about two years later though. At thirteen I just knew I wanted to go away forever and not have to deal with my life anymore. I never hurt myself, though. I guess deep down I knew that if I did do it, my parents would have one more thing to worry about, and that was the last thing I wanted. I felt like I could never talk to anyone about how I was feeling inside, so I kept everything bottled up until I eventually broke. 

When I broke, it wasn’t a huge explosion, it was more of a toxic gas leak. I was fifteen when I started going behind my parent’s back and doing things I knew I wasn’t supposed to. I wasn’t messing around with boys yet though, I was an ugly little duckling undeserving of love in fifteen-year-old me’s eyes. I would use the days my sister was away at the hospital to invite a bunch of my crappy friends over to drink my parent’s alcohol. I knew my mom would be gone for sure, and my dad’s workdays were from 6 am to 11 pm, so as long as they were gone by 10:30 pm there was no chance of me getting caught. I think all the things I was doing were really a cry for help, but no one heard; to tell the truth, I didn’t feel like being heard. I hated myself, and at about sixteen and a half, I became bulimic. The first time it happened, I told myself it would be the last. I had eaten so much at a friend's house and I felt so full. I went to the bathroom and stuck my toothbrush in my throat. In some twisted way, it felt good to me. It was like finally taking a breath after being underwater for so long. I promised myself I would only do it when I felt absolutely stuffed, but then I started doing it even after a small plate of fruit. It became an addiction, I was like a squirrel chasing after an acorn. What really made me stop was after blood started coming out every time I threw up. I am so grateful that was all that happened, I never really realized that I could have died from bulimia since it can affect the heart. I had so many relapses after I started getting clean though, but I am proud to say that I am one year completely free from the tight grasp of bulimia. 

At about 16, I finally went to a therapist to talk about how messed up I thought I was.  Lo and behold, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, depression, and anxiety. I wasn’t really too surprised, I have family members with bipolar disorder and although she will never admit it, I know my mom has anxiety and depression like me. As the saying goes, “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” I just went to a therapist though, so I never got medication for it since I have to go to the psychiatrist for that. So I decided to self-medicate with the beautiful plant, marijuana. The first time I smoked it wasn’t with good intentions. I just really wanted to get high. But when I realized marijuana helped me with my anxiety, my panic attacks, and my overall health, I decided to delve into the plethora of research available, both on the internet and through books, about the medicinal properties of the tetrahydrocannabinol found in weed. I tried different strains of indica and sativa, and decided that what had the best effect were sativa-dominant hybrid strains. I could finally sleep in peace, focus during the day because I was able to sleep, and finally kick bulimia completely to the curb. My appetite came back, I went back to a healthy weight, and allowed my mind to confront so many feelings that I had kept buried and untouched that needed to be addressed. Maybe I sound like a crazy drug addict, but weed quite literally saved my life. 

 I just had a high conversation with my friend Sofie yesterday. I met her through our chemistry class and we bonded because we are both nursing majors and smokers. We went up to Double Peak Park and ate some edibles. We talked about how COVID was simultaneously the worst and the best thing that could have happened to both of us. Of course, it's terrible to think that something good came out of such a bad thing, but it happened and there’s no way to change that. COVID was such a break from the world for me. Before, there was always something to do, school, homework, going out with friends and family. During COVID, there was nothing. Nothing beside me and my thoughts. It made me acknowledge all my flaws, all my problems, and just everything. It also made me realize how beautiful the world really is. I know it’s grim, but there’s something about knowing that so many people died but I didn’t that made me so much more appreciative and thankful. Sofie came to similar conclusions, she said how she also was grateful that COVID happened because it opened her mind up to new possibilities and experiences. Now is the time to do the things you doubted you could do because you’re alive. You don’t know how much more life will be granted to you, especially nowadays. 

As I sit here, reflecting on my life I realize how lucky and grateful I am. My life, although riddled with hardships here and there, is perfect. I have health, I have breath, and I have sustenance. I am not perfect. Perfection is such a bore. I have lived, so I have learned. If I was perfect I never would have learned. I have accepted everything that has happened to me. Of course, there is always the question of why me? But really, the answer is much simpler than you would think. It was me, because there is no one else like me. I am proud, I am imperfect, I am amazing. Those life lessons taught me that no matter what, as long as I breathe another day there is room for improvement and change. Life is not meant to be easy, and coming to terms with that definitely wasn’t easy either. But if there is one thing that I need more people to learn, it's that acceptance is key, and acceptance is healing. It was hard for me to understand why I had to go through such bad experiences as a little girl, I had done nothing wrong and nothing seemed to be going right for me. But now, I value all those times because they taught me lessons I’ll never forget and made me the beautiful person I am today. Don’t forget, you’re beautiful too and your life is yours. 

With love,

Kim, future Nurse Practitioner.