I had what some might call a dysfunctional childhood. I showed symptoms of depression, anxiety, and OCD as a child, which was unheard of in children back then, so it went unnoticed. I was painfully shy. I wanted to be a teacher. I wished I had a little sister. I liked to sing. I started writing stories in the second grade. I had a pen-pal. I went to public and catholic schools. I made friends. I lost friends. I had a crush on a boy with glasses. I was on the honor roll. I had braces. I learned how to not be so shy. I wanted to be a psychologist. I realized how much I really loved writing when I was 12 years old.
I started high school with stars in my eyes and dreams in my heart. I made friends. I met a boy, and I allowed him to crush my spirit for a long time. I turned 16. I passed tests. I failed tests. I went to summer school. I learned a lot about relationships, what they should and shouldn’t be. I was told horrible things that I believed about myself. I lost friends. I took abuse that wreaked havoc on my soul. I became severely depressed. I was falling. I graduated high school with the certainty that something had to give.
I ended an abusive relationship. I went to college. I made friends. I put up walls. I partied. A lot. I failed out of school. I went to a lot of bars. I dated a lot of boys. I was raped. I began to sink deeper into depression than ever before. I put on one hell of a façade. I hit rock bottom. I wanted to kill myself and sometimes even thought about how to do it. I hated myself, what I’d become, what I’d allowed myself to become. I tried to get through one more day. I got through another day and then another. I did it one day at a time. That was all I could do.
I decided to get through it. I began to find happiness. I started to see things more clearly with a level head. I decided to reclaim my dreams. I held my chin up. I told myself I deserved to be happy, even if I didn’t fully believe it. I told myself I would make it.
I met a man. I got to know him; he was laid back and carefree, giving and loving. I wanted him. I wanted to be with him. I opened my heart. I fell in love with him, and he with me. I saw and felt him give me the love I once believed I deserved.
I married a beautiful man. I had beautiful children. I turned 30. I have friends, old and new, and a family who love me for who I am…because of who I am.
I am a mother. I am a wife. I’m a daughter, I’m a friend. But most importantly, I am a woman, and I’m beautiful inside, all on my own.
My past does not define me, nor do my imperfections. I do.