Someone recently told me that they have never been friends with someone who has as many “issues” as I do. She wasn’t saying this in a malicious way, but as you can imagine it is certainly not the kind of thing you want people to say to you. At the time I paused, listened to what she was saying, and felt a familiar pang of self-loathing. The kind that comes when once again, you feel like a failure. Once again, you feel rejected by someone. Once again, your deepest fears about yourself are harshly brought to light. I knew she was right, so I left her comment undisputed and let the shame wash over me.

When I woke up this morning, that word kept rattling around and around in my brain. Issues issues issues issues issues issues issues issues… It was driving me crazy. Stop it! I told myself, grasping for any distracting thought. I started to do some crunches, hoping the physical exertion would overpower the ceaseless repetitions of that word. But it didn’t stop. It continued like a mantra, a steady continuous chant in rhythmic time to my sit-ups. Up and down, up and down, issues issues issues issues issues issues… This had to be dealt with. I put a movie on for the girls, and sat down to think. What was happening here?

The conclusion I came to was this: I did not agree with my friend’s statement. It seems so simple written down like this, but it was a revelation to me. I did not have to take her words as my truth.

The month before I turned fourteen, I got my period for the first time. The sudden hormonal shift of puberty combined with other factors in my home environment cause me to fall immediately into a deep depression. Faced with the dark and often suicidal thoughts that came so suddenly, I searched desperately for a way to cope. I was scared of this person I had become, seemingly overnight. I no longer recognized my own reflection in the mirror. I was in such indescribable emotional pain, and I felt utterly alone. I had no words to express the turmoil I was experiencing inside. All I knew was that it was too much. It was more than I could bear. I had to do something to relieve my agony. I began to self-harm. I stole razor blades from my dad’s toolbox, and saved up my allowance to buy packages of them at the hardware store. I hid them all over my room. When the pain inside became overwhelming, when I thought my chest was going to implode from the weight of it all, I cut my arm. As my skin opened and the blood began to flow, I felt the most immense relief. This was pain I could explain. It made sense. It was human. I would watch the blood drip from my arm and with it the darkness left my body. I would be drained and exhausted, but I felt real again. I felt and bled and healed like any other person. Cutting was the only thing that tied me to this earth and made me feel like I belonged here. I know this is scary to read about, and I know a lot of people will never understand this about me. But what I realized this morning is that the depression, the cutting, the subsequent drug use and then recovery from it all… that’s me. That’s who I was, where I’ve been, and the building blocks for the woman I am now. I have been sober for 7 1/2 years. That is amazing. I haven’t hurt my body since that one terrifying year. That is powerful. I have learned how to control and take care of my depression and anxiety, and now I live a normal, happy life. That is a success story. I do not need to be ashamed of this, I need to be proud.

This morning, Tracey told me, “Karli, we all have issues. You’re just willing to look at yours.”

That is the truth I choose.