Every couple of months, I come into school and gather with my friends in a blur or skin and colorful markers. People give us strange looks as they pass in the hallways, and teachers scold us for breaking dress code; But none of these things matter to us. What matters is what is right in front of us and what we’re about to do. So we write “Love” on our arms.
“To Write Love On Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery” as is stated on their website. This movement is one of the few that has truly touched my heart. Why? Because my whole life has been spent in a vicious battle against depression. Some days were easier than others, but they were never good. My parents thought my mood swings were just part of who I was and that what I was, was a mean, angry little girl. The reality was much different. My mood swings were a part of who I was, but not for the reason they thought. The truth behind it all was that I couldn’t control my emotions, not in the slightest.
When I was younger, I wasn’t as aware of my mood swings. I guess I just figured it was a part of growing up and that I would grow out of it eventually. Wrong. As I got older, I became more aware of them, but the word my mind processed wasn’t depression. It was bitch. When I looked in the mirror all I could see were my flaws: my hair was too poufy, my skin was too pale, my stomach was too big. When I was actually able to sleep at night, I had nightmares; Vicious nightmares that clung to me with their sharp teeth and stuck with me through the week. I was scared to go to sleep, but it was too exhausting to stay awake. Every morning was a struggle for me. From the minute I woke up I would be exhausted. Life just didn’t seem worth it anymore; it just seemed like a giant waste of time. That’s when things got bad.
The everyday struggles had become too much for me. School was too hard, I couldn’t ever seem to do anything right, it seemed as if my own mother didn’t want me around. But I didn’t have anyone that I could talk to; no one else knew what I was going through and I was afraid they would think something was wrong with me if I told them. So I bottled it up inside and locked it away deep in the back of my mind. I painted on a smile and laughed and joked my way through another meaningless day. I could have been an actress if I had wanted to; no one saw through my charade. Not. One. Single. Person.
When I got home I turned into a completely different person. My “good mood” disintegrated the second I stepped into my house. I didn’t have to pretend for these people, they’d already given up on me a long time ago. I drugged straight upstairs and locked myself in my room until morning. Sometimes I would just curl up and cry until I passed out, other times I took my hairbrush and beat myself until I was black and blue. And other times were even worse. I became best friends with the blade of my pocketknife; there were secrets between us that no one else knew. It was the one thing I could always rely on the relieve my stress and depression. You think of cutting and think “How painful,” but the truth is that it was nowhere near as painful as what I felt inside.
Eventually, my parents found out. I later found out that my neighbor’s daughter had been worried about me and asked her mother to talk to them. I blamed her for everything. I couldn’t believe she had done that to me. But now that I think back on it, I should’ve been thanking her. If it weren’t for her then I probably wouldn’t be here today, I wouldn’t know any of the things that I’ve learned over the past three years. She saved my life; because she cared.
So I get upset when people insult those who celebrate TWLOHA Day. Some people just need to be reminded that they’re loved, and that they shouldn’t give up. But then I remember that there are others out there that don’t understand what I’m feeling; what WE’RE feeling. And I forgive them. They find it pointless because they can’t relate to it, and I’m glad they can’t relate to it. People should be able to be happy, but for some it takes a lot more effort than for others.