By an anonymous contributor

I’m 27 years old and too young to understand what trauma is, I’m too young to know what depression is, and I’m too young to possibly understand what true struggle is. These are things I’ve been told for most of my life. I’m just too young. I was around 5 years old when I first witnessed my mom abuse my sister, about 6 when she was drunk driving with us in her car while trying to exit it, 10 when my sister passed away, 12 when I was isolated across the country with my abuser, and so on, yet I’m too young.

I spent most of my teenage years being told I wasn’t enough; I wasn’t pretty enough, I wasn’t smart enough, I wasn’t black enough, I wasn’t mixed enough, I wasn’t talented enough, and I wasn’t enough for this world. I had multiple appointments for plastic surgery to tweak my face, just enough. I would always turn them down though. I had to become a classical piano teacher as a pre-teen to be talented enough even though I couldn’t really have a social life beyond it. I was only allowed to eat half of what my household ate just so I could be thin enough.

I was 16 when I had had enough. I told my mom I was going to kill myself because I was done, I was over it. For some reason I thought I would be faced with a crying mother wanting to help, a compassionate person, a loving figure. Instead she told me, “I just wouldn’t have a funeral for you.” Afterward, I was only abused more. During this time I reached out to my school counselor. I didn’t know what options I had as an underage teenager who was being abused by her parent. That also proved to be problematic. My school called my mom to discuss my concerns with a mediator. She simply told them that I was an angsty teenager who had it out for her mom. From then on she told me that I was the crazy one and no one would help me because I didn’t need to be helped.

At the age of 17, I was finally able to leave my home. I was being kicked out, but I  would be out. I told myself everything would be better once I could get out. Once I wasn’t verbally, sexually, and mentally abused. The truth is, just leaving the situation doesn’t mean it’s over. I was stocked, had the cops called on me, had my job called, family members called my phone almost everyday telling me I was nothing, my joint bank accounts were emptied, and had to start college. In college I could figure this all out. Though all of these things had happened, I started looking into therapy. I had no understanding about therapy but I thought anything could help. I was still under my mother’s health insurance which meant she could see if I was going to a therapist. As a 17 year old, many places didn’t seem to fit because I didn’t know what to say, who to talk to, how to start talking, and I didn’t know what I wanted out of it. Since I didn’t know where to go or what to do, I stopped looking and focused on surviving and preparing for college.

College came and so did PTSD, panic attacks, and more suicidal thoughts. I got to the point where I was dating a drug dealer, lending out my car to strangers, and was stoned most of the time unless I was at work or doing homework. I didn’t care what happened to me.  Even though I didn’t care what happened to me, I understood that I could help others. I volunteered through Mental Health America in North Carolina helping those in the community. I felt more at home around them. I was helping youth in crisis while I was in one.I was in another abusive relationship until one day, I was drugged and raped by my then boyfriend and his friends. I was at the point where something had to change. I was 21 going to the ER every month from panic attacks because I didn’t know what they were, I was working three jobs to pay for everything, a full-time student, I had just been raped, and something had to change.

I broke up with my rapist, started researching mental health, changed my phone number, and blocked my mom from everything. At 21, was the last time I saw my mom in person. She told me that if I wanted to see my two siblings again I would finally have to get plastic surgery, so I blocked her from everything and  re-connected with my Dad who turned out to be the exact opposite of my Mom. My Dad had saved all of the legal documents during their divorce, my sister’s death which I was told was my fault, and other information to prove that my mother was in the wrong this whole time.

 I started selling anything I didn’t need and at 23 moved back home. Once home, I knew I needed to find some kind of help with my anxiety, panic attacks, and night terrors. At 23, it was still just as hard to work the mental health system. I had to look through my insurance to find a provider and from then meet with many different people until I found someone I was comfortable with. During all of that, I dove into self-care and body positivity. I started following therapists on Instagram and YouTube, read tons of articles, and listened to a few podcasts. I was determined to feel like a strong individual.

Four years later I still work on myself every day. I tell my body it’s beautiful, I do guided meditations to fight off my self hate, and I see a therapist regularly. I still have panic attacks sometimes when I’m triggered, I still cry sometimes at night because I wish those things didn’t happen to me, and I’m still told I’m too young. Yoga has helped calm me in the mornings or evenings when I’m stressed.Talking and creating wonderful relationships with people who care have helped get me to where I am now.  I pick myself up and remember how far I have come. My Dad told me of a wonderful quote that I think of everyday, “I have come so far with so little, I can do anything with nothing.”