My Bruised Years

Not all bruises are visible

To see me now you would not believe that there were years when I only wore black and blue.

They were bruised years, not only from what I wore, but how I felt.

The irony is my body has never bruised easily, my wounds not visible from the outside.

But I hurt.

My soul was Bruised.

My emotions Battered.

And though no marks were inflicted upon my body it felt tender to the touch.

I have come to see that my choice of clothing was a way to express my internal bruising, I don’t know if anyone noticed my little call for help.

But no matter, because deep inside me covered in a pile of heavy, wet and washed out denim was a warrior waiting to break free.

She found the courage to ask for Help.

Then she wished she hadn’t.

To be 14 and hospitalized for Depression felt like an insurmountable stigma, the Mount Everest of stigmas.

I wanted to Die.

Sodden with sadness, grimy in my grief and so very very tired.

I thought my warrior had left me.

“You silly girl, I will never leave you, I am you. Stand up and fight. The world will not be better without you, your family will not get over you, taking your own life. GET UP AND FIGHT!”

And so, I did…

Slowly I began to claw my way out of the hole.

Slowly the colour returned to my cheeks, the light returned to my eyes.

They clinic which had seemed such a curse became the biggest gift. I was not alone in my struggle

Going back to school and facing my friends and teachers though terrifying was not as Everest-ish as I had expected.

Each time I survived something challenging I began to feel stronger.

Now I wear all the colours of the rainbow, sometimes at the same time, lol.

Now I live my life in full colour.