There was once a happy little girl. She was truly happy, no medicine to make her that way. No doctor appointments every other week. It didn't matter what anyone thought about her. She was her own kind of beautiful. She thoroughly enjoyed life and all the people in it. This girl was me. 

As a young child, I was happy. Then came first grade, it was a big change. No more nap time, snack time, or easy classwork. That kind of change was normal. However, what wasn’t normal was my teacher. Not because she was weird or strange, but because this teacher bullied me. She would fuss at me for going to the bathroom more than 2 times in a day. She even threatened to write me up if I went to the bathroom too many times. She would also call me names, and not nice ones. She would also pick on me for being scared of the loud fire alarm. Overall my first-grade year wasn't the best. When my parents found out what the teacher was doing they were livid. They switched me out of her class and into another one. Even then I was terrified. My dad would have to carry me into the school kicking and screaming. Despite being in a new class I still wouldn't move past the table right next to the door, in case I needed a quick escape. 

Also during these years, I would have these fits of blind rage. Afterward, I would see what I did and feel terrible. I would see the destruction and mess I left behind. My room would be a mess from me throwing things, sometimes things got broken. There was one time I got so mad and my sister happened to be standing too close and I ended up spraining her thumb. I didn't realize this until after I calmed down. After that my sister was wary of me. I felt terrible and still do to this day. 

During my first grade crisis, I met my current therapist. Back then she was a Behavioral Health Counselor at my school. She told my parents I was showing signs of Bipolar Disorder and anxiety. We visited many doctors, tried many medications, and went through a lot of tests over the next few years, starting in second grade. We eventually found the right mix of medicines. I was on a good bit of medicines for the age I was. I was doing good for a long time. No rapid mood swings, no fits of rage, not as much school anxiety. Then came my teenage years.

My family moved to Columbus, GA for about eight months. That may not sound like a long time, but to me, it felt like ages. My dad was working long hours and his job put a lot of stress on the whole family. I had two close friends for a while. But after about four or five months one of them stopped talking to me, I never knew why. Then the other girl, who was friends with her, eventually stopped talking to me a little bit after. Sometime after that, my dad had a heart attack. He had to be transported by ambulance to the local hospital. I remember being so scared when I first got to the hospital. I had no idea what condition he would be in or what to expect. I can remember the relief that I felt when I saw that he was okay.  He was released a few days later but that was the last straw for my family. With all of the stress from his job and my friends, or lack thereof, we decided it was best to go back to what we knew. My parents decided that we should move back to Florence to help care for my grandparents and focus on my dad’s health. When we returned the school year was almost over. Everyone knew each other, and I was an outcast. The first year of middle school is already hard, but starting at a new school three-quarters of the way through the year was absolutely awful. Even so, the worst was yet to come. 

About two months into my eighth-grade year I became extremely depressed. I told my parents that I wanted to die. The next day they took me to the therapist I had only talked to once. I had this gut feeling that I shouldn’t trust her. So I refused to leave the car. When she came out to the car to talk to me I tried to run. She said if I wouldn't talk to her my mom would have to take me to the hospital, which is what ended up happening. I was held in the psychiatric ward at the hospital for two nights. I wasn't allowed to have any food with sugar, I wasn't allowed to have anything metal and I wasn't allowed to call my closest friend. The last thing she heard from me was that I wanted to die. They would come in and use a metal detector wand every few hours. When the doctor finally came to talk to me I wouldn't comply and refused to answer her questions. Not just out of spite, I was scared and I didn’t know this lady. She asked me some questions, I didn't answer most of them. I was told if I wouldn't answer her questions I would be sent away to a different hospital. When I still wouldn’t comply she was forced to refer me to an inpatient hospital in Columbia, SC since she could not guarantee my safety and well being. I was handcuffed and had chains around my waist while I was transported about an hour away in the back of a police car. I was terrified to talk or even move to get comfortable, well as comfortable as one can be in a police car. It was in this moment that I lost hope. 

When I arrived at the inpatient facility I was unchained but to this day I remember that experience, I felt traumatized. After that, I was taken to a small room while I waited for my parents to get there with some of my things from home. While I waited they asked me a bunch of questions, some of which were very personal. When my parents got there they took me back to where I'd be staying for the next three weeks with other people who were in the same boat as me. The therapy staff was very nice and understanding. The nurses were a different story. I was supposed to get blood drawn and I hate needles, so naturally, I was saying “Ow.” or “That hurts.” both times they tried. I have small veins, making it difficult for them to draw the blood. So the first time they tried they were frustrated but put a band-aid on and told me they'd try again later. The second time was also unsuccessful. However this time the nurse said “Whatever.” and told me to leave without even covering where I was bleeding from the needle. 

After those three weeks, I was sent right back to school. Everyone was asking me where I was and why I had missed so many days. On top of that, I missed three weeks' worth of work. Even now there are only a select few people who know what happened that year. 

Every year after that, around the same time, I relapse into depression and struggle to focus on schoolwork as well as my mental health. The next year wasn't quite as bad. But in my tenth-grade year, I really struggled. I tried to focus on school work and other people to distract me from my own problems. But eventually, I knew that I had to get help. Looking back that shows how much I’ve grown and what I’ve learned from my past experiences. I went into an outpatient program that taught me coping skills and how to utilize my support resources. I will be forever grateful for that experience because now I know what I need to do and how to better deal with my depression, bipolar, and anxiety. 

So currently I’m feeling optimistic. Like I can do what I want with my life. I feel like I can get my work done and graduate next year. That I have what it takes to overcome the obstacles life may throw at me. But most importantly, I have hope that the happy little girl still lives within me.