A Day Called Way Back

This one is not for me. No, this is for the young man who I spoke with about the semicolon tattoo. At the same time, no, this one is for me.
Or at minimum, this one is from me to you because, yes, there is a great big world out there. I have learned that not everyone understands, cares, or is open to talking about the things that you and I talked about.

I have been told about my writing or the topics that I write about. I have been told that some of my pages can be depressing, or sad, or draw people into the stigmas of mental illness because I write about depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation.

I have listened to the critics rip me to shreds. I have been told that I don’t know what I’m talking about and that I am privileged in comparison to most.
But come to think of it, maybe I am privileged in comparison to some. At the same time, the ideas of privilege or being privileged are relative.

I am not here to get a good grade or to have my Mom put a gold star on the wall for me anymore. I stopped bringing my report card home years ago.

Either way, there is a bottom line that I have to pay attention to. There are valid points which I have to notice and hold dearly because, in the end, the critics are not the ones who helped me at my worst.
My enemies had nothing to do with the turnarounds or my survival. Or maybe they did have something to do with this. Maybe the people who put me down influenced me more than I thought.

As for the meaning behind the semicolon, this is a symbol inspired by Project Semicolon, which means people have chosen to continue living instead of losing to despair.

I am not here for the food and friends. I am not here to be cool or popular or to satisfy the critics.

I know a lot about anxiety. I know a lot about depression. I know a fair share about mental illness as well because, in fairness, I call them me (or at least part of me).
I have lived in the shadow of an ugly sigma or lie which tells me that I am unworthy. I lived with a constant whisper that was unresponsive and resistant to mediation.

In fact, every medication I took only served to make my symptoms worse.

I was that kid. I was that small and awkward and puny kid. I was scared. I was uncomfortable with how I looked and how I sounded. I was never happy with the reflection I saw in the mirror. I’m not sure why, when, or where this came from. I don’t know how this began. However, as I grow, I have been able to learn more about the personal and emotional mapping of my life.

I had irrational fears that kept mounting and ideas that poured in like an unwanted army of tyrants that looked to divide and conquer. I lived with the whispers that told me no, not you. Something is wrong with you — meaning me.

I was bullied. I was picked on.
I was painfully uncomfortable and awkward as ever.

Maybe my inner turmoil and the internal critic can lead back to things that happened when I was small. Maybe this was a response to an imposed touch that should never happen to a child.
Maybe I was too sensitive, like I was told. Or no.
Maybe I wasn’t too sensitive. Maybe I was hurt.
Ever think of that?

Maybe I was tired of being uncomfortable all the time. Maybe I was tired of being weak. Or maybe I was tired of believing that I was invisible or simply not wanted or worthy enough of being included.

As for you, my new friend. . .
Look at the semicolon you have tattooed on your arm.
Do you know what that means to me?
This means that there is a community that understands.
This means there are other people who thought and felt or believed things that are similar to my thoughts and beliefs.

This is not a new battle for me or for anyone.
I was only eight when I tried to end my life the first time.

I have lived with this for as long as I can remember.
But, I can say that although I am far from cured and even further from perfect, I can say that random meetings (like ours) and talks with people (like us) are lifesaving.
I say this because despite the critics and the enemies, people like us come in contact to prove that we are never as alone as our circumstances lead us to believe.

I know your Mom has a lot to be proud of with you.
I know that as a new friend, I have someone to be grateful for.

In the darkness of what seems to be the last hour, there was a light that came in, just like the sun when it shines on a new day.

Thank you for your bravery.
Thank you for being my new friend.