My Story Is Not Over

I have always loved tattoos. I think there is something really cool about using your body as a canvas. I don't think there is anything wrong with getting a tattoo just because you think it looks cool or pretty, but I do think there is something special about getting a tattoo that holds a deeper meaning. Over the past few years, I have seen something called "Project Semicolon" popping up around social media. This project was born from a social media movement in 2013. It is described as "a movement dedicated to presenting hope and love to those who are struggling with depression, suicide, addiction, and self-injury. Project Semicolon exists to love, and inspire." If you are wondering how a semicolon fits in to all of this, here's how:

A semicolon is used when an author could've chosen to end their sentence, but didn't. The author is you and the sentence is your life.

This movement was originally created as a day where people were encouraged to draw a semicolon on their body and post a picture, but it quickly grew into something greater and more important. Today, people all over the world are tattooing the mark as a reminder of their struggle, victory, and survival. Here's where my story comes in.

I grew up living a pretty normal life. I have 2 parents, 4 siblings, and I had lots of friends. I was involved in my youth group as well as clubs and school activities. When my junior year of high school came around, I noticed something different about myself. I started having days where I didn't want to get out of bed, or where I felt completely alone even though I was surrounded by people. Although this seemed unusual for me, I sort of brushed it all aside because, everyone has those days, right? I didn't think anything of it until my family took a summer vacation to the beach. The whole week we were there, I found myself not wanting to get out of bed. I think I only went to the beach two times the entire week. I told my parents that I thought I might be depressed, although I wasn't sure why, because I had a perfectly happy life. As time went on, I found myself having more and more of those days. I would get so anxious that I would throw up over what seemed like the stupidest things, I never wanted to leave my bed, and even though I knew that I had so many people that loved me, I felt like no one did. People in my life knew that I was struggling, but I don't think anyone ever realized how bad it was, because I tried so hard to be happy.

Flash forward to my freshman year of college. I moved into a dorm at UNT with a roommate and everything was set in stone. I was going to have the perfect 4 year university experience and I wouldn't let my depression or anxiety change that, or so I thought. A few weeks into classes, I found myself stuck in a routine of waking up, going to class, going home, and sleeping until I had to wake up and go to class again. I hadn't made any friends or joined any clubs. I had such bad anxiety that I would have to leave class to throw up or have a panic attack. Throughout this time, I was seeing a therapist, but after each session I only felt more anxious. After a few weeks of feeling anxious, lonely, tired, and sick all the time, I did not want to live my life like that anymore. Most of my thoughts turned into thoughts of not wanting to live anymore. I was so anxious that I barely ever slept, I had thoughts racing through my head constantly, and I started to hurt myself. I reached out to a friend about how I had been feeling, and that friend told my mom. Although I was very angry with my friend at the time, what she did ended up being a very good thing. Right away, my mom picked me up from school and the next day we went to the doctor. My doctor recommended that I get evaluated by a mental health specialist at a psychiatric hospital, where I was then admitted into the hospital's inpatient program for seven days.

My stay in the hospital consisted of daily visits with a psychiatrist, nurses, an individual therapist and multiple group therapy sessions. The first few days were hard. During group sessions, I would listen to other people tell their stories, and I felt like I had nothing to tell. Everyone seemed to have a reason to be there except me. I was just a normal girl with a normal life who couldn't get it together. When I was telling my story, one person even replied with, "Well, it seems like you have it all together." This almost made it more frustrating, because I couldn't find the root of my problem. I did not have any built up anger or guilt, I just got nervous and/or sad sometimes. After being in the hospital a few days, I was able to learn more about what depression and anxiety really mean. They don't have to be accompanied by a tragic back story. Sure, they can be caused by certain events or situations, but they can also be genetic. Depression can be caused by a combination of genes and stress that affect brain chemistry. Throughout my stay in the hospital, I met a lot of interesting people and heard their stories. That was the first time that I didn't feel alone. I learned that there are so many people like me. I also learned about alternative, healthy ways to cope with my anxiety and depression. After my discharge, I didn't go back to living a perfectly normal, happy life. I still struggled. But instead of coping in unhealthy ways, I used all of my new, healthy coping mechanisms.

Now after reading all of that, I bet you're probably wondering how I'm doing today, and the answer is, I'm living. It has been more than 2 and a half years since I was in the hospital, but I am not cured of depression or anxiety. Those are illnesses that I will probably struggle with for the rest of my life. I still have bad days. But those days are not every day. Those days are far outnumbered by the good days. In my story, I chose a semicolon because my story is not over. This tattoo will serve as a reminder to continue my story because those days are not every day and I will be okay.

Ever since I got this tattoo a few weeks ago, I have been contemplating sharing about it and what it means to me. I knew that I didn't have to post about it anywhere, that it could be personal. A reminder for just me. But then I thought about myself 3 years ago. I thought about how if someone had shared their story of victory and survival with me, how that could've helped. I am writing this today, to not only spread awareness about the topic of mental illness, but in hopes of helping someone who could be going through something like I did. If you or someone you know is struggling, don't be afraid to ask for help. If I had waited much longer, I might not be here. I will link some resources where you can learn more about mental illness, warning signs, anxiety, depression, suicide, suicide prevention, and ways you can take action.