On Thursday I was sent from work after only 3 hours into my shift. My boss saw me lying on my break room floor, curled into the fetal position, and crying my eyes out. I was in so much pain I could barely walk. I was periodically running to the bathroom to cry and sit before wiping my tears and pretending to be okay. I tried my best to keep a stiff upper lip and push through it, but I couldn’t.

   I was on my period. It was stupid, I told myself. This happens once a month. Every other woman I know goes to work on her period. It can’t be that bad. I wanted to keep going to prove something to someone. I need to prove to myself that I’m not weak and can handle pain with grace. Maybe in a  lot of ways I wanted to prove that I’m strong enough to handle my chronic illness that played a role in my pain. And certainly I needed to prove to men that I was invincible. I can tackle a job, an internship, school, cleaning my home, taking care of the cats, being a wonderful girlfriend, being a great big sister, and make great art all the while in unbearable pain. That’s my way of proving myself to men. I don’t like when men think I’m weak. I can hold my own. Not only can I do a good job, but I can do the best job. I can have my cake and eat it too.

   At work they call me Super-Girl. This probably started when I volunteered to work until 3am when my shift had started at 3pm. I did that two nights. In a row. And I had school in the morning. I did it because it was fun. I love working hard. But mostly I did it just to show that I can. I’m unstoppable. Now I’m known for being the craziest employee. I feed off of the comments of people telling me I need to stop working so hard, that I need to sleep more, to take it easy. It only reinforces it in me. I work hard. My boss praises me for it and I live on that.

   Today I almost passed out on the train. I had an insane hot flash that made me lose my vision. I ran off the train and threw up. The paramedics were called. I sat in the ambulance while they checked my vital signs and the only thing going through my head was, “it’s 7:30; I need to leave so I can get to my 8am class.” So I did. I told the paramedics I didn’t want to go to the hospital and I left, got back on my train, stopped for coffee, and made it to class on time. No one there knew what had happened. I didn’t bother telling my professors because it was over.

   Today I think: that isn’t hard work. That is suicide.

   I’m angry at the culture we have created that praises people for risking their health and their lives for things that do not matter. I’m angry that I oftentimes go to work when I am sick or in pain because I only think that I cannot afford to skip work. Not for my health; not for anything. I hate that I am in the position where I need to harm myself in order to make ends meet. I have to get no sleep in order to write papers. I hate that I have to work so many hours just to pay the bills. What’s worse is I hate the culture that tells me that’s okay. I hate that we praise workaholics. We call people lazy when they stay home. We tell people they aren’t dedicated enough. We leave the impression that if you don’t feel like you’re dying than you aren’t giving in all that you have. I despise the wealth inequality that drives those of low socio-economic status to poorer health conditions because they can’t take days off. I grieve for my mother who’s days off only mean she gets to work her second job; and her no work days mean full house-work days. I hate that I feed into all of this. I hate myself for coming to school today.

   Even after everything that happened over the summer; my anxiety sky-rocketed, I worked myself  ragged, I became insanely depressed, I started taking anti-anxiety/anti-depressants, and I lost a ton of weight due to poor health choices, I still continue to do it. I don’t know why it’s so hard to stop. I know I do this but I can’t stop.

   Sunday’s are my Sabbath day. I told my boss I cannot work them, aside from the rare exception. I do this because I need one day of rest. One day that I know I can look forward to where I just rest. Even with my mountain of doubt, I find myself going to church because the familiarity is comforting. On Sunday’s, my brother leads a bible study where the conversations have been so beautiful. It’s one of the few places I feel like I can truly put away my mask of Being Okay. I love being able to be open with others and connect. I love the Sabbath.

   I wish we did that more. Talked about rest days more. And not just in the “today I’m doing a face mask” day but a day where you truly let yourself be. Admittedly, I love doing facemasks on Sunday but I also love drawing and talking to friends and reading and binge watching Brooklyn Nine Nine. I keep telling myself this needs to be a priority but it’s hard to make that a priority. It’s hard when everywhere around us we get opposing messages about what we should be doing. I know, it’s gotten better but I don’t think the message has hit me yet. Oftentimes I need to write it for myself, in my own words, before I begin to feel it.

   I am such a fan of hard work. I enjoy working my ass off and feeling accomplished after I have been productive. But I need rest. In my health psychology class we’ve been talking about the negative impact cortisol (stress) has on the human body. I hear this all the time but I rarely do anything about it. I don’t have the luxury of rest. I need to pay bills. I need to get through college.

   But I need to rest. We need to rest.

   We need to give our bodies a break. Physical health isn’t an isolated status. Our bodies and souls are one and the same; we need to give both rest, give both love. We need to do less of what drains us and more of what fills us. It’s easy to say when you have wealth, I know. But I think we need to do what we can. We may not be able to take off of work, but we can breathe. Be mindful. Don’t hold tension in your shoulders. Drink water. Slow down as much as you are able.

   And just rest.

   I’m sorry.

   I’m sorry that every time I address you it starts with an apology, as if you’re something I need to feel sorry about. But I’m sorry that I constantly feel the need to tell others I’m sorry on your behalf. Since when did I need permission for my body to exist the way it does? I’m sorry that I keep apologizing for you when I really should be apologizing to you. You were never the one that was wrong. It was always our perceptions and horrible expectations for you. But they will never say they are sorry, so we must learn to accept apologies that never come and let go.

   The first is from me. I’m sorry I never treated you right. You didn’t deserve it. You never deserved all the nights of starvation and hunger or the nights I would pinch flesh to inflict pain. I hurt you, intentionally. You didn’t meet my expectations of how a body should look and so I hurt you in hopes that you would change. It never helped. It only created a toxic relationship between us that dragged us both into depression. You could never be enough, no matter how thin you got, it wasn’t thin enough. It would never end. But you never needed to be any smaller. You’re beautiful just as you are. You do not look like a model’s body or a fitness athlete; you don’t even resemble your fellow pole dancers but you are beautiful. You are unique and special and lovely. I’m sorry I could never see it before. I’m done making you small when you were born to take up space in this world. We need to stop making each other small. Being big is not the opposite of being beautiful. We were not meant to succumb to the expectations of others. I will not be quiet anymore and you should not be small.

   I’m sorry that I’m often angry at you for lashing out at me as if your anger wasn’t justified. But its so hard to love you when you don’t love me in return. I have dreams that feel so far because of your inability to function. All I want is to be able to run with no restraints and to keep up with my friends and to dance; I miss dancing so much it aches. But the pain in my knees have been unbearable. The weakness in my arms and the pinching in my elbows is excruciating. Maybe you’re angry at me and maybe it’s justified. I’m sorry. I’m sorry if you are in need and I ignore your cries. I’m sorry I have never been able to balance my relationship with food in a healthy way and I’m sorry you suffer for it. I’m sorry that it’s so hard to eat sometimes and that its been hard lately. I wish it were easier to eat better without falling into a hole of obsession, but its not. If I limit you, I’m afraid I’ll starve you again, and you deserve to eat.

   Oh, body. I’m sorry for all the times I’ve apologized on your behalf. I’m sorry that I let people cover you up in shame. I’m sorry for the ways in which the Church has silenced you and called you a stumbling block, as if you were the one with the power to turn men into monsters. I’m sorry that the media uses your beautiful sexuality against you; that they ignore your beauty by making you a commodity to sell. These institutions and cultures have done you harm and I’m sorry I believed them when they said you were the problem. I’m sorry for the question of “what was she wearing?” I’m sorry that I was made to feel sorry for you. But I’m not; not anymore. I refuse to fall back into the mindset that has caused me to hurt you. I will not hide you. I will not soften you for others comfort. I will not hold my tongue when speaking of you. Nothing about you is an apology. When the Church says that we are made in the image of God, I will say it louder and with more conviction that we are made in the image of God; that women are made in the image of God. All of you was made in that image. Your curves, the arch of your back, all the scars, and your breasts. All of these are imago dei*. God’s image. All of those parts of you that I have deemed “ugly,” those are image bearers. El shaddai**. The God with breasts. You no longer need to cower or hide those parts of you in hatred. Shame isn’t welcome here anymore. You are more than a stimulus for sexual pleasure for men. You have a beautiful sexuality and that is not a sin. You are not a whore. You are a temple. Each part of you was made beautifully. Each and every curve was fashioned with love and dignity.

   I’m sorry that everything has been so hard lately. You are suffering physically and it’s making me hurt mentally. But I know that I need to surrender. We are one, and when we fight, we both lose. I’m sorry that I spent so much of my time focusing on the new body I wanted by dreaming of heaven that I neglected you. I’m sorry that the theology and doctrine that you’ve been told has made you nothing. You are not nothing. You are not filthy or dirty or wrong. You do not bear the weight of the transgressions done to you. Do you hear me? You are not responsible for the sins done to you. Those have been cleaned; they are not your burden anymore. The shame you have carried is gone. You are not those wounds. You are not your limitations. You are not your sickness.

   My body, I love you. I’m done fighting. I’m done ignoring you. I am done pretending that you do not matter. I’m done feeding into the lies that you are an object. I’m done rallying around doctrines that make you an enemy; I have done that on my own for too long. I’m done hiding you away as if you were a problem. I will no longer apologize for who you are. You are not dirty or wrong. You are lovely. Beautiful. Graceful. Strong. No matter how others treat you and no matter how you treat me in return, I promise to love you and take care of you. No matter what is said to you or about you, I am making a public commitment to you. Not even in death will we part; we are inseparable. I don’t think God created me as just a soul; I think He made me a soul that lives in unity with my body that is a reflection of that very soul. You and I are interconnected. Your pain is my pain. My burdens are your burdens. And the joys we experience, we feel together.

   This next year I want to love you more, respect you more, and nourish you more. I want that in every area of life for you. I want you to be well. I want more tattoos and piercings to be the paint and the decorations of your temple. I want your hair to be your crown; no matter the color, length, or style. I want you to be free in whatever you choose to wear. Let go of the idea that you are what make men sin. You are not sin. Adorn yourself with what makes you feel strong and powerful. Wear what makes you feel happy and free. I promise this year that I will take care of you and feed you. We will drink water and snack on broccoli and enjoy quinoa. I will maintain you; no more workouts that harm you. I will listen when you are in pain. I will revel in rest, but I will commit to making you stronger at your own pace. No longer will you be compared to bodies on Instagram. You will be allowed to be all that you are without apologies. You are allowed to be flawed. But because I love you, I promise to wash you and give you what you need. Every morning when I wash your beautiful face it will be a reminder to nourish you and appreciate you. Every day I wake up with the ability to walk is another day to applaud you. And on those days when the pain keeps us in bed, those are days to listen to you and cry with you.

   Lastly, this year I will remember that we are one. So for just as many days as I will spend taking care of your physical needs, I will spend just as many taking care of our other needs. The soul needs chocolate and hot baths. The soul needs Netflix days and to snooze the alarm. The soul, a part of our body, needs rest and love and attention. We will go to therapy. We will take breaks. We will call off work if we can’t bring ourselves to go. I will listen to music that is uplifting and honoring to you. I will journal and draw and take photographs. I will let my body and soul live in harmony together and neglect neither. I promise to love you in all that I do.

   I promise that there will be no more apologies.

   *”Image of God.” by Shane O’Leary

   **”God As Mother” by Carrie A Miles

   “My father picked me up from school one day and we played and hookey and went to the beach. It was too cold to go in the water so we sat on a blanket and ate pizza. When I got home my sneakers were full of sand and I dumped it on my bedroom floor. I didn’t know the difference, I was six. My mother screamed at me for the mess, but he wasn’t mad. He said that billions of years ago the world’s shifting and ocean moving brought that sand to that spot on the beach and then I took it away. Every day, he said, we change the world. Which is a nice thought until I think about how many days and lifetimes I would need to bring a shoe full of sand home until there is no beach. Until it made a difference to anyone. Every day we change the world. But to change the world in a way that means anything, that takes more time than most people have. It never happens all at once. Its slow. Its methodical. Its exhausting. We don’t all have the stomach for it.”
   -Elliot Alderson, Mr. Robot

   It’s been a week, hasn’t it?

   I’m emotionally exhausted. I’m drained. I’m overwhelmed. I feel like I’m one more heartbreak away from losing faith in humanity. I have always tried to be the person who stayed positive and shared encouraging thoughts and pressed on. But my soul hurts. It grieves for the world that is hurting and in pain. I am constantly struck by the thought that haunts me; the one that tells me I am not doing enough. But I barely have time to keep my head above my own waters. I’m torn between the demands of school and my workplace and my family and friends and the demands of my physical health and my mental health. Yet around me the world goes on; and the world aches. I feel helpless. Even when I try to tell myself “this is why you’re going to grad school!” I feel like a fraud. I like like my pursuits aren’t good enough. I’m terrified I am fighting a losing battle; one that means nothing in the grand scheme of things. I’m afraid that my attention is all off; maybe I’m not looking at the bigger picture. Despite my belief that in order to save the world, each individual must do what they can in their part of the world, I try and bare the weight of the world’s pain on my fragile shoulders. And I am tired.

   Aren’t we all?

   We scream but we aren’t being heard. There seems to be no justice for the oppressed. Abuse rages ever so strongly. Yet our voices are hoarse. We can’t scream any longer. We want water. We want rest. We want to see a shift in our institutions that will learn to accommodate and accept those who have been brushed aside into the margins of the world. We want what Jesus would have wanted. Justice and mercy. For love to win. Freedom, in its truest form. We want the pain, not to let up, but to lessen. Oh, how I want their pain to lessen.

   I’m done pretending I’m not talking about specific things. I’m angry that Brett Kavanaugh has been voted into the Supreme Court despite sexual assault allegations, yet I’m even more horrified that the President has shown so much support for him amidst all of this. Worse even still, those that claim Christ’s name have been on the forefront of those supporters. I’m upset that the title “Christian” has been bastardized and made synonymous with “Conservative” and “racist” and “homophobic.” I hate how many Christians are such things.

   There are not words to express how much my heart breaks for Christine Blasey Ford, who bore her trauma before the entire world only to be called a liar and publicly mocked by the President of the country who is supposed to be for justice for all. Yet even worse, I hurt for those survivors that have watched this all unfold and who have been shown how little their government values women’s voices and experiences. They have been shown which places are safe and which are not. Regardless of whether or not the man is innocent, the way Dr. Ford has been mocked has only showed survivors that they are not safe here. Regardless of whether or not she was telling the truth, the message that was portrayed was that unless you have witnesses or recordings of the event, you are not believed. Those who have voiced their support of Kavanaugh have willingly or unwillingly showed survivors that they do not care and will not listen to their stories. To all those who have suffered in silence, I’m exhausted for you. We are exhausted for you. When you read the Facebook status’ of your fathers and brothers and best friends, I can’t fathom your pain when you read those posts that mean to only speak of politics but are also simultaneously shoving your secrets further inside of you. I know when you read Dr. Ford’s story, you are reminded of your own. You are afraid of their backlash. You remain silent. You are so tired of the silence.

   We are here. Screaming for justice on your behalf. Some of us identify as feminists. We call ourselves this because that is the only language we know for someone who is willing to stand up for women and against sexual violence against others. Of course, we are labeled “man haters.” I’m tired of defending myself against people who only want to argue about technicalities and have no interest in compassion or understanding. Our motives are critiqued and criticised. We are well aware of our faults. We are aware of those who have gone around and harassed men by spilling bleach on the crotches of those manspreading. Their actions are wrong. They claim feminism but act out misandry. Most people claim they cannot tell the difference. To those people I hold my white flag. I am done explaining myself to you. My breath could be better used elsewhere. You cannot have my time anymore. I cannot fight merely for the fact that I am too tired to protest. It has taken my whole life for me to realize I don’t owe you anything. I will never be right in your eyes. Yet still, sometimes it keeps me up at night. It keeps me up knowing how much pain you’ve caused and will continue to cause. I want to change your mind but right now…right now I need to rest. We need to rest. Our souls are so very tired.

   On the days we rest though, how much rest is there? All around us the world spins on and the problems don’t stop. Tell me, how many more of my loved ones will admit to me that they have been raped before it’s enough? How many more times will a young girl cry on my shoulder because they feel like a slut in church for choosing to have sex before marriage? Please, tell me how many more closeted LGBTQ+ individuals will come into my life asking for refuge before I can finally tell them with confidence that I know a place for them? When will we stop questioning the motive of the homeless before we finally give them some money? When will mental health become available for minorities and those of the lower class?

   When will we, activists and survivors, get to rest?

   Or better yet, when will the government share my burden and decide to care? Or when will people? When will the church?

   We are tired of screaming into the void. Our vocal chords are shredded. Our lungs are on the verge of collapse. We want action. Hell, we would be happy with acknowledgement. We need some sliver of hope to remind us that this will get better if we keep fighting. So far, nothing seems to be budging.

   My friend tells me they are gay. They cannot come out because of the backlash. Because they will be ruined. They say they are unsafe and I want to tell them “scream it. Tell the world you are gay.” But I know they’re right. Its fucked up, but its the truth. And I have nothing for them. My church’s love could only go so far. The comments of homophobic, ignorant family members would destroy them. They would be alienated and alone. But they’re tired of hiding. I’m tired for them. There are gay Christians I know that have nowhere in their life for support. I want to stand up for them but my soul is weary. I’m weary from trying to find a biblical angle that justifies homosexuality that will satisfy everyone. I’m weary from denying, to myself and to others, the feelings I refuse to name that I’ve had towards girls in my life. I’m tired of needing to have a 5 point essay in MLA format to simply explain that I think gay people should be allowed to participate in society. I’m tired of having to have this argument, because while we fight over why we can or cannot love someone with the same genitalia as us, homeless veterans die on our city streets. Other countries suffer from war that we support. Black lives are lost due to pure racism. There are bigger battles to be fought. There are so many battles to be fought. But I feel like I oftentimes talk myself into circles; constantly fighting but never winning.

   I’m not the only one. I know. We are exhausted. We are wounded. We are fighting out of a place of personal experience and every argument we have only opens the wound further. We bleed and are accused of being too political. Fuck politics. Fuck being civil. Our soft voices have not earned us credence. Please, forgive us for not being able to speak kindly when we are in pain. Forgive us of our personal experiences that oftentimes cloud our arguments. Forgive the dark circles under our eyes that we can no longer hide. Forgive us that we are angry that our experiences are called lies.

   When will we be able to breathe?

   My friends, It’s okay.

   I wish I had more to offer than to tell you to rest. I wish I had more soundproof advice than that. All I can say is that sometimes you need to close your laptop, turn off your phone, stop responding to those text messages. Turn on a TV show that you enjoy or take a bath. Allow yourself to rest. Step away from your triggers. Put down your fists. Rest your voice. Do all those cliche self care ideas. Changing the world does not happen overnight. There will days that we will get tired and burned out. But all the greatest heroes got tired. But you are never alone in your fatigue. Find someone who can carry your burden with you until you have rested. Take care of each other.

   The world will not change overnight. It is the accumulation of efforts spread out throughout generations. It’s so very slow and so very emotionally taxing. Frankly, it’s discouraging. But there is rest and there is fruit. Maybe you don’t see the world change in a dramatic way, but maybe you can encourage the next generation. Maybe you touch your school or church or maybe just your friend circle. My boyfriend tells me that we need to pick our battles, so we should pick ones we can win. Do what you are able. Maybe it’s not much, but it’s something. Because maybe you start a ripple effect that changes everything. You might never know. But our job isn’t to know. Our job is to persevere for as long as we are able, rest, and then start again in the morning.

   Give yourself a break.

   The world will have plenty of battles to fight again tomorrow.

   I used to be infatuated with the idea that you never know when the best day of your life will be. And it’s not because I heard that one New Girl quote once. Although my heart melted when I watched that episode because I was so happy someone shared my philosophy. I had also heard once that the day before your life changes forever is just like any other day. A couple years ago I was in love with that idea. I was drunk on the excitement and spontaneity of the prospect of tomorrow being the day that changes everything. I think it was because I was happy. I was a girl who was wide eyed, optimistic, and well, frankly, incredibly naive.

   Naive. Isn’t that what they call someone who is blindly unaware? Happy to the point of foolishness?

   See, the problem with my hopeful philosophy was that I had never considered that much like tomorrow could change my life for the better, it also held the potential to change my life for the worse.

   And so once upon a time, I was waiting for some magical day to come. I had this idea that the best day of my life hadn’t happened yet and so I was hoping for it. On one particular day in 2016 I was on the bus, daydreaming of all the potential the day held and wondering what life had in store for me that day and well…even though I knew anything could happen, I guess it didn’t sink in that really, anything, good or terribly bad, could happen. But somehow I could feel it in my bones; it was like there was this electricity in the air that let me know it was today. The day that changes your whole life. And it did. That day changed my life, just like I thought it might. That was the day I began talking to someone I would almost immediately fall in love with. That day was followed by weeks and months of euphoria that I couldn’t explain. It was like I really believed I could be happy. I had thought that I had done my time. I had spent 19 years of my life anxious, wanting to kill myself, starving myself, self-harming, and self-isolating. Shit, I thought I deserved to be happy for once. It was almost like God owed me. He put me through years of hell, and most of it was His followers fault; the least He could do was give me this.

   For a while, He did. Things were good. For months they were good. And they were really, really good until they were really, really bad.

   The short explanation is that heartbreak can kill you. It can become a catalyst; the thing that finally kicks your depression back into gears after months of remission. And if you’ve ever had a depressive relapse, you know they’re even worse than falling into depression for the first time. It was a snowball that got pushed down a mountain and became an avalanche. Everything got worse and I couldn’t stop myself from spiraling. There isn’t a way to articulate how bad 2017 got for me. I started to become someone I didn’t like. I did my best to keep it under wraps, but I think people noticed how broken I was. But not a lot of people knew why.

   Suddenly that wide-eyed girl with blind faith was gone. She was replaced with a bitter, pessimistic, cynic. What could I say? I was hurt and angry. My perfect fairy tale was destroyed. That day was supposed to be the best day of my life. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. And so the memory of this supposed “best day of my life” became tainted with the reality that it didn’t work out. I looked back on that day and now could only see the inevitable future ahead of myself. It was ruined. But hell, it wasn’t even about the day or the boy. I couldn’t bring myself to pretend to be okay in church and having to learn the hard lesson of lament. It was how all that opened my eyes to the suffering of other people that made my empathetic heart collapse. There was all this stuff about my mental health and my family and all these huge doubts about God that made the whole year just suck. Basically I threw out whoever it was I used to be and threw out God. I couldn’t deal.

   After that, it took me two years to sort of, almost, piece myself back together. But I stopped believing in kairos; in perfect timing. And I basically stopped believing in God.

   And things were fine. Not every day was euphoric, but I had stopped wanting to kill myself for the most part. I had finished therapy, which helped tremendously might I add. I finished junior year. I moved out of my old house and into a place with some friends. I was, as they say, “getting by.”

   I don’t know when things changed back to how they were. It was slow, really. There was never one moment like it had been the time before. I’ll admit, the relapse I had this year came out of nowhere, because I couldn’t isolate it to a single thing. It was because I had taken on too many responsibilities for the summer, it was because I chose a research project way over my head, it was because I was having to be the rock of way too many of my relationships, it was because I now needed to learn to budget money so I could pay rent, it was because imposter syndrome at my program at school, it was because I was still in love with someone who didn’t want to commit to me, it was because I had all these doubts about my faith, it was about how I was uncomfortable with the answers I was finding when my therapist told me to explore my own sexuality, it was because I was stressed over the politics in my country, it was because my lupus starting acting up again, it was because my family was having a hard time; it was just everything. All at once.

   So that’s my confession. I relapsed this year. Amidst all my encouraging blogs and social media posts. I relapsed. Towards the beginning and middle of summer I would sit behind my counter at work, trying to focus on my job but mostly thinking of if I could technically define this as “relapsing.” If only thinking “I want to die” but not having an articulated plan actually counted. And I started not eating because I was too busy and too stressed, but once I started losing weight I realized how good it made me feel to actually be able to control something. It sucks having to say that after 3 years clean, I decided to keep making choices to go to bed hungry. Because everything in my life was spiraling out of control, I kept myself busy by hyper-focusing on food.

   After weeks of panic attacks, I landed myself in an emergency room.

   It took everything in me to find the courage to go. It took all my courage to tell my mom and my friends and the nurses, “I’m at this hospital because I’m having a panic attack and I’m thinking that I want to die again.” It took more courage to tell my doctor, yes; I did want to go on antidepressants/anti-anxiety medication. It took even more courage to admit to myself that I had relapsed and I wasn’t okay.

   After that, a funny thing happened.

   I starting getting better again.

   First of all, medication for depression is amazing. (However, the side effect of terrible insomnia is less than amazing.) Having a loving support system with your friends and family and actually being open with them about your struggles as they are happening is amazing. And so is deciding you are going to make yourself a priority. After the hospital, I dropped the research project that was stressing me out in order to pick up one that was more manageable. I quit my second job. I stopped responding to texts I didn’t need to. I started talking positively to myself. I began going on Pinterest more to look at those stupid, cheesy inspirational photos. I gave myself a break and took things one day at a time. And I had to learn to stop fucking apologizing to people for being who I was.

   And just like that, it happened again.

   A day that changed the trajectory of my life.

   My life went from being this chaotic mess to being the life I had always dreamed I would have at 21. And I realized it didn’t happen because of a good day. It happened because of one of the shittiest days I’ve ever had. It was actually the accumulation of months of shitty days all piling up until they broke me. But they also made me. See, being in the hospital made me realize I couldn’t keep at that pace. I needed to cut things out. I remember sitting in that hospital bed, dazed out of my mind on sedatives and anti-anxiety medication and realizing how lucky I was that this was the worst it got. That was enough to make me realize if I didn’t change something, I was going to be at a hospital full time. And that night at the hospital, someone let me crash at their house so I wouldn’t have to be alone and so I could be taken care of. And they showed me such an immense amount of love and kindness and showed me I deserved better. That was the day I realized I needed to not be in a relationship that was hurting me. It was also the day I got to spend time alone getting to know my now-boyfriend. If I had never gone to the hospital, I never would have admitted to myself that I liked him. We wouldn’t be celebrating like, a month and a half together.

   I don’t mean to sound like the person who says that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, because I’m a big believer in pain not always needing a profound lesson. Sometimes pain just hurts. But I think eventually it can set you on a specific path that you wouldn’t have taken otherwise. Sometimes it’s not a good path. I wasn’t on a good path for a while there, but somehow I ended up exactly where I needed to be.

   It makes me think about all the job interviews I failed last year that hurt me, but am now glad fell through because I’m happy at the workplace I now have. There were all the bad lessons I was taught about God that ruined religion for me, that I’m now more grateful to have thrown out. There were so many days that hurt me and almost broke me, that I now look back on as being pivotal days that changed my life forever.

   I’m not sure I’ve made sense. I’m sharing this because I want you to know that it gets better. I want you to know that every stupid cliche you’ve ever heard is true and it is golden. I fall more in love with cliches every day. I’m writing this because I need to be reminded that it gets better. That life is not all or nothing. You will get better only to get worse again, to get right back up. Recovery is never a one time deal. It’s something you need to choose every day. I want you to know that there is so much in this life that you cannot control but there is still so much you can do. We do not get a say in the cards we are dealt, but we do get a say in how we choose to play them. I’m saying that you never know when things could get better. I’m saying that the day after I wanted to kill myself, I was at a Dunkin Donutes and my favorite band broke their year long hiatus and it made me cry because if I had killed myself, I never would have heard Nico And The Niners. I had no idea what beautiful things were in store for me.

   And I want you to know that I am hopelessly optimistic again. Because my philosophy has had to change. Now, I really do believe that each day could be the best day of my life. The bad days and good days alike are all leading up to something beautiful. Your heart ache could be the thing that changes you. Or it could be your chronic illness. Or the day you found out your family member passed away. Or it could be the day you locked yourself in your bedroom because of your depression. Those days have the power to change everything. I think it’s pretty cool that each day we grow and change and you are not obligated to stay the same. Each day is it’s own. And you know, this will be a reminder to myself the next time I fall apart. Nothing lasts forever. Not happiness but also not pain. I’m learning to be okay with that. Every day is new.

   So stay alive. Tomorrow could be the best day of your life

   The title comes from a song called “Clarity” by Andy Mineo. I’ve had it on repeat since it dropped, and while that’s not even close to the best, most thought provoking line in the song, it’s something that’s been on my mind.

   All my heroes are frauds, just like me. 

   I haven’t been writing lately because I’ve had too much on my plate. My head has been a jumbled wreck on nonsense and doubts and insecurities. I thought I had silenced that voice inside of me that tells me I’m not good enough. But lately it’s been telling me that I’m a fake. A poser. A fraud.

   In psychology, we call this “imposter syndrome.” That feeling that you’re a fake in whatever you do. The fear that someone will expose you and reveal just how little you know. It’s the worry that you don’t deserve to be where you are. So much of it comes from looking around you at people who all seem to know exactly what they’re doing. Lately, I haven’t been able to feel like I belong anywhere.

   I’m in a scholars program at my school for students from low income and under-represented families who want to go to grad school. I’m currently doing research on Latinos with mental illness in the prison system. I’m looking into grad schools and preparing to take the GRE. There is so much I need to do. I’m constantly playing email tag with prisons. I have a million and a half IRB proposals to do, consent forms to write, ID’s to photocopy, and approval letters to get. My vocabulary needs to improve for the exam and I need to brush up on my math and statistical knowledge. My faculty mentor tells me we’re going to use SPSS to do a logistical regression to map out the data. I barely know what this means. Last week I had my first panic attack in over a year and a half and almost quit the whole thing. Everyone else in the program knows what they’re doing. The directors tell me that’s not true. “No one knows what they’re doing.” They tell me. But I’m the only one on the verge of tears after walking out of class.

   I feel like a fake.

   At work, I’m a bike technician. I build and sell bikes. However, I learned this skill a month ago. Customers come in and they tell me they need their bike fixed. Sure, I can assemble a bike but I have no idea how to spot what’s wrong with one or how to check one in or how long it’s going to take to fix it. People call and want to know what the difference is between a road bike and a hybrid. I think the wheel is just smaller but I can’t explain that in fancy terms. I want to tell them that Google knows more than me. Customers are upset because I give them blank stares and can’t answer their questions. I need help. My coworkers all understand things about bikes that I cannot comprehend. I just started at this position but I feel like I’m expected to know everything.

   I’m a fake.

   At church, I sit in the pews and listen to the sermon. The people around me are engaged; taking notes, and flipping around in their seat back Bibles to the different passages. They sing along during worship. They all know something about God that I don’t. This makes sense to them. Somehow. This ancient scripture filled with artistic language and bizarre concepts; this makes sense. The idea of God is real for them even though it sounds crazy to talk about. These people are real Christians. But I haven’t read a Bible verse in months. Every time I open that book I find myself screaming at it. Why does everything have to be so hard? Everyone around me has Christmas Gift Faith; perfectly wrapped and tied together with a bow on the top. Nothing is out of sorts. Why can’t I have that? I go to church every Sunday but mostly have no idea what the hell is going on. From the outside I look like I know but I don’t. I’m a fake Christian.

   I’m such a fake.

   On the internet I’m a mental health advocate. Self-care! Go to therapy! I like all those inspirational quotes. But maybe I don’t talk about it as much as I should. Other people have better insight and they do a better job at being an advocate. I didn’t mention Kate Spade or Anthony Bourdain on Twitter. I didn’t even know who he was until he died. Everyone is talking about mental health now. Where is my opinion? I tell my friends to slow down; quit that job if you need to, take some time out for yourself, say no to things. This all coming from the woman who works two jobs, is taking a summer class, and participating in rigorous research. I have eaten two meals in the past three days. I only drink coffee when I know my body needs water. I cried at work out of pure exhaustion. I’m so burnt out. Why can I only tell other people how to take care of themselves but can’t seem to do it myself? I’m not a real mental health advocate.

   I’m a fake.

   I talk feminism up all the time. I encourage girls to be their own selves and be who they want to be. It breaks my heart when women think that they are defined by men. Women spend so much time chasing after people who don’t even care enough to give them the time of day. The feminists I see around me are so strong; they don’t care what guys have to say about them. They are strong. Courageous. They are unafraid of backlash. They are unapologetically themselves. But then there are people who don’t like my views; and I’m so afraid they’re going to find out the truth about me. They’re going to find out that I cried over a boy the other day. They’re going to rat me out as someone who wants to be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t want that back. They’re going to tell me what I tell myself a million times a day. “That’s not very feminist of you.” I want attention from men just for kicks and to maybe to feel better about myself. I need validation. I need romantic love. Most days I go against everything I claim to believe about feminism. I’m not even a real feminist.

   I’m a fake.

   But today I met with a woman about research and she told me something that I needed to hear. She said, “Own that you don’t know. Say that you don’t know and say it proudly. Maybe you might give other people the courage to say they don’t know either. And don’t make yourself small. Make yourself big.”

   People keep telling me that it’s okay to not know. People keep telling me that everyone is faking it just like me, but I never see it. I feel like I’m the only one crying myself to sleep at night over stress. I think I’m the only one who can’t figure out research proposals. I feel like I’m the only one just going through the motions and not really understanding what’s going on.

   But I’m not. I bet you probably are too. Right? You’re probably lost and confused about something. You’ve probably felt like a fake at some point. And all those people you look up to and admire for having it all together? They probably don’t. I’m not even saying anything new. I hear that all the time but somehow it never really sank in. It still hasn’t. I’ve never felt so out of place before. But I can’t be the only transfer student who feels like a freshman trying to assimilate all over again. I’m not the only first generation student, or first person to attempt grad school in a family. I know all my heroes are faking it too. My brother looks like he’s figured out how to be the perfect husband; I’m sure he feels like a fake. My best friend can work SPSS like a pro but she couldn’t always. I know Sarah Bessey, my favorite author, struggles to write. I’m sure my pastor doubts his ability to lead a church. My favorite dancers don’t know how to get certain moves. The list goes on forever.

   So yeah. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. And the longer I live, the more I realize that’s okay. As much as my perfectionist attitude tries to convince me otherwise, it really is okay. I’m trying my hardest to live in a very complicated world. Sometimes my actions and beliefs don’t line up. Sometimes I have to throw out beliefs I thought were true and try again. Sometime I will mess up and make mistakes. Sometimes I will be wrong. But I cannot be expected to be the expert on everything. The only person who expects me to be, is me. Basically, I’m outting myself as a fake writer, fake photographer, fake feminist, fake baseball fan, fake student, fake employee, fake theologian, fake poet; just overall, an imposter. And that’s perfectly fine.

   I don’t want to be afraid to say I don’t know. So if I look like I’ve got it all figured out, I can assure you, I’m screaming internally always. And I’m pretty sure you are too.

   I’ve been trying to figure out how to say all of the things I needed to in the right way. I’ve written this post a million times and I hope this time it makes sense. It’s funny, this wasn’t supposed to be a 2017 recap and yet here we are. Bear with me for one more cheesy post.

   Over a year ago, things started to fall apart. In my own life mostly, but that became a catalyst. My hurt opened my eyes and made me realize that everyone is hurting. Unfortunately for me and my empathy, this made my heart break even more. My only aspiration for 2017 was to feel better. My motto for the year was a line from the song This Year by the Mountain Goats. “I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me.”

   I was going into 2017 with baggage and pain and I thought that things had to get better. Starting off my year at what I thought was rock bottom, all it could do was go up. Sadly, I was mistaken. Things got worse. My mental health got worse. My doubts got worse. My mood got worse. My situations got worse.

   But a year ago my brother taught me the word “lament.” It means “a passionate expression of grief or sorrow.” I made it my word of the year. It was everything. I think I cried more in 2017 than I ever have in my life. I cried over my hurt, others lives, things I saw on the news, things I read, movies I watched, sunsets I saw; I just cried. And I learned to let myself cry, which was one of the most painful lessons to learn. I knew my one New Years resolution was nothing; I had set the bar so low. I didn’t want to grow from pain. I didn’t want it to make me better or stronger. I wanted it to stop. I wanted all of my grieving friends to stop and find peace and I wanted the global catastrophes to stop and I wanted the shootings to stop and I wanted my families financial problems to just stop. But none of it did.

   At first, it was fine. I prayed more and listened in church more and read my Bible more. I felt so empowered and strong. I had all this faith when it first started. But then time passed and I thought I had learned my lesson, so it would end soon. Then more time passed and I started wondering if God was listening. Then more time passed and I started to get angry. And yet even more time passed without change and I gave up. I can’t explain that last phase of time because it was the darkest it’s been in so long. Because at that point, lamenting becomes sitting and staring at a wall and somehow that’s worse than weeping. I would have given anything to feel emotions again.

  I cycled through those phases several times. I’m still cycling through those phases. It’s a constant battle between feeling everything or feeling nothing. Every high was a peak this year, and every low was a new rock bottom.

   But slowly, it started to level out again. The lows are just sad, not devastating. The highs are exciting, but not enough to make me forget my pain.

   And the thing is, there is no way to recap that. I wanted some grand lesson for people. Like, “Here’s how I got better! In 5 easy steps!” But it’s not like that because some days feel like I’m back at day one. I wish I could say it would be easy. I wish I could take your pain. But the truth about suffering is that sometimes you have to bear it. Sometimes you will feel like it will kill you. Sometimes you will make choices in your pain that will make it hurt even more. Sometimes you will hurt people you love because of it. Sometimes you will ask God for death. Sometimes you will search for answers to feel better or seek a reason for your pain because you need it to mean something. But sometimes it doesn’t mean anything.

   If there is one thing I’ve learned during my season of lament, is that sometimes there are more important things that for you to feel better. And that’s really harsh, but that’s the truth. There is no quick way through suffering and that’s okay. You are not obligated to be happy all the time. I want you to know that it is okay to lament. There is a season for everything. If 2018 is going to be your season of pain, let yourself be in pain.

   That’s it. There is no magic. No eye opening moment where I realized my pain was gone. There was only a collection of happy moments that carried me through the dark nights. Life isn’t 100% anything. You can’t be happy forever, but you also can’t be sad forever.

   I honestly thought I had dragged myself through 2017. But I made a list of all the great things that happened and I realized that all those little happy moments were enough. So many beautiful things happened while I wasn’t even aware. I’m not sure if any of that made sense. My point is that life is messy and we can get so caught up in trying to change how we feel or change the things around us that we forget to enjoy the little things.

   So, more for my personal reference than anything else, here are some beautiful things that happened to me this year:

   -I saw twenty one pilots live. (This feels like it was years ago. My sister and I camped out for 14 hours in below freezing weather just to snatch barricade. It was amazing but we both agreed we are never doing that again.)
   -I met one of my Internet friends in real life. (And we actually became best friends. I see her often now. She truly the best thing to happen to me in 2017.)
   -Saw Foster The People (twice!), Bleachers, and NF live
   -Spent another summer at Wrigley Field
   -Shaved half my head of hair
   -Took summer classes online and graduated in July with my Associates in Arts
   -Moved into the city at the dorms of my new university
   -Won NaNoWriMo for the 5th time
   -Spontaneously got matching tattoos with one of my closest friends (also rekindled our friendship after years apart.)
   -performed in my first musical (Coraline. What a show.)
   -watched my adopted sister get married and watched my brother get married
   -photographed my first wedding
   -got my tongue pierced
   -went to a Cubs game with my best friend (as a fan and not to work.)
   -went to my first homecoming dance
   -came clean about my fear issues (which is something I had needed to do since 2015.)
   -started going to a new church
   -had so many adventures with my roommates
   -started taking pole dancing classes
   -got super into poetry and spoken word/poetry slams
   -turned 21
   -went hiking to Starved Rock for the first time (and made new friends there as well.)
   -starting getting counseling
   -got closer to two of my little brothers
 
   And those are just highlights and things that came to me off the top of my head. There were so many great times as well as so many hard times. And that’s okay. I think that’s finally okay with me. I’m so excited for 2018 because I love the sense of renewal and starting over. I love every cheesy resolution and all the long, reflective posts. I’m here for it.

   This year, I hope you hurt and do not swallow your pain. I hope you will love despite the fear. I hope you will cry in public. I hope you will learn to laugh even louder because of it. I hope you will open your eyes to see the world around you. I hope that fear will motivate you rather than hold you back. I hope that when your pain feels overwhelming you will remember to breathe. I hope you will know that sometimes life gets better only to get worse again; so enjoy the good moments. I hope you will stop equating “good” with “perfect.” I hope you will ask those questions you think you cannot ask. I hope you will not be afraid of the answers. I hope you remember that it’s okay to be broken. I hope you remember to give grace to everyone; including yourself. We’re doing the best we can.

   Happy New Year

   (How did your year go? Any lessons learned? Do you have any resolutions for next year?)

   At the beginning of September, I started going to therapy.

   It was something that I knew I needed for a long time. (Like…I’ve known for years.) When I finally started going to university this semester, I made the long, scary trek to the edges of the fourth floor, where my school’s counselling center was kept. I was sleep deprived, had large bags under my eyes, and kept my hood up to cover how greasy my hair was. I was a mess. I had spent the last week crying and lowkey wanting to die.

   Why? I should have been fine. This semester all my dreams started to come true. I moved into the middle of the city, I’m at my dream school, I got to be at the Cubs NLCS games again, I’ve seen my favorite band live twice this year, I’ve made new friends, I’m getting ready to look into grad school…I’m finally living my life.

   Unfortunately, I found out, that even though I left home, my depression followed me. I think The Flash said it best; “turns out, you can’t outrun pain.”

   So here I was. I thought I would be happy by now since life is going great. I thought I would feel better now, considering it’s been a year since my depression came back. But that wasn’t the case. I still needed help, and I was finally able to get it. Truthfully, I was skeptical. I didn’t get how it was supposed to help and I didn’t get the point. Even as a psych major, someone who literally wants to be a mental health counselor, I kinda thought I was above it. I’m glad I swallowed my pride enough to go. Because I found that I actually love therapy. I love getting to talk and be listened to. Honestly, my counselor is so wise and I love getting advice and insight from her.

   So in honor of that, here are some of the coolest things I have learned in therapy thus far. They sound so cheesy, but since having heard them, I’ve been bringing them to mind more often, and I have found that reminding myself of these things help change my perspective on life.

   1. No one can be happy 100% of the time
   My therapist has to tell me this all the time. Because I tend to swing between extremes very quickly. For me, if it rains, it pours. When I get happy, I feel like its the best day of my life, but if I’m sad…well I never want to get up again. And I think being sad means I’m “getting bad again.” And that’s not true. People get sad. People have bad days. People have bad weeks. That’s life. If your goal is to be happy all the time, you will fail. Because that’s not realistic. I’m trying to learn to be okay with bad days.

   2. You can start over. Every day.
   One problem I realized I had was that I’m obsessed with “happiness streaks.” Like, I feel the need to be happy today just because I was happy yesterday. Again, I’m afraid that one bad day will mean I’m going to be stuck in a spiral. But my therapist began talking to me about not carrying yesterday’s baggage into today. Because life has variation, I should plan for variation to occur. Each time you wake up, it’s a new start. A new chance to be better. Sometimes though, a new day brings new pains. And that’s okay. Because if you’re angry or depressed or overwhelmed today, remember that you can start fresh tomorrow. There’s always that hope. And it also allows for grace. Sometimes you have to let yourself have terrible days. That’s okay.
   Tyler Joseph once said, “Just remember, you can start over, every morning.” I try and keep that mindset now.

   3. Enjoy the little things
   This used to be my motto. I would swear by it. But overtime, I sort of lost that mentality. Depression does that to you; it distracts you from seeing the beautiful things in everyday life. There was one week in therapy where I talked about how amazing my week was. I named all these incredible things I got to do; like go to a gala with one of my best friends. She told me that realistically, I won’t get those grand experiences every week. So she had me list all these things I love that were a part of my everyday routine, and to think about how happy they made me. Some of the things on my list were talking to friends, writing, putting on my pajamas, and listening to music. She told me to focus on those little things throughout every day life; and take note of when things make you happy. Appreciate them.

   4. You’re allowed to be angry
   This one was hard. Because I thought I was done being angry. But something she said to me stuck in my head for weeks. She told me, “you’ve taken all your anger, and you put it in this little box inside of yourself. And you keep it locked away because it’s easier for other people for you to just swallow your anger.” She told me to get angry. For weeks I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. I could remember times where I was really angry, but I didn’t feel that way anymore. I thought I had let it go. But one day it came out. I found myself on my bathroom floor, sobbing, and hugging my knees. All I could think of was “God, I’m so angry.” I let that happen for over an hour. I just let all the pain hit me. I let myself lament and scream about how angry I was. And then once I stopped crying, I felt relieved. After properly feeling those emotions I had kept locked up, then I was able to let them go. Then I was truly able to forgive.

   I think oftentimes people think anger is a negative emotion. It’s scary. But we’re allowed to be angry and upset. Pushing those feelings away will only result in them leaking out in other, more subtle ways.

    5. They didn’t change you. You changed you.
   I always seem to attribute my own successes to other people. I think that I got my strength from my mother, my boldness from my sister, my intellect from my brother, my kindness from my best friend; the list goes on and on. I think meeting these people impacted me and shaped me. Don’t get me wrong; they did. But it leaves me in a weird place of thinking that without them, I’m worth nothing. That I wouldn’t have figured it out without them. But when my therapist said “They didn’t change you. You changed you.” I started to cry. I knew she was right. I was the one who made the decision to become the person that I am. Those people in my life greatly influenced me, but at the end of the day, I made me.

   You made yourself.

   You were the one who decided to get better. You were the one who put yourself back together. You were the one who changed. It was all you. That’s comforting to know because it also means that you have a say on what happens next. You can still choose who you want to be.

   And those are the five things I learned in therapy. As cheesy as this post was, I wanted to really be open about my issues and share how being in therapy is helping me in a very practical sense. I wanted you guys to know that it’s okay to get counseling. People say that its okay to not be okay and I want you to know I really mean it when I say that.

   For a long time I was in a bad place. My writing has been pretty reflective of that. A lot of days are still hard. I still freak out over finances and I have no idea how I’m going to pay for school next semester and I worry I don’t have it in me to finish grad school. I worry about my siblings and my family and I worry about my friends and the world. I worry because I know any day my health could give out. Any day my mental health could give out. I worry about theology still. I get lonely being at a school where no one knows me, and being far from my friends who miss me. Those are all real fears and feelings, but slowly I’m learning how to not live in extremes. I’m learning how to be sad without thinking my sadness will kill me.

   Seriously, if you’re going through a hard time, reach out. I know it’s so much easier to isolate yourself, but I promise, you’re feel better this way.

   I remember a while ago I questioned whether or not it gets better. And I’m not sure still, but I’m starting to think it just might.