When I look back at my life, I can never pinpoint a specific moment that I knew my problems weren’t the same as everyone else’s.
Maybe it was showing up to my 4th grade class with red finger-less gloves on because I had washed my hands so much that they bled and cracked.
Maybe it was holding my breath and digging my nails into my palm in high school English because this random weird tightening in my chest was making me want to scream.
Maybe it was having to check the door handle six times before I could leave the house.
Or just maybe, it was when my college boyfriend told me he wanted to have a “guys night”, and I ran upstairs and cut myself.
I was a 21 year old riddled with anxiety, OCD, and depressive episodes.
After nights of crying myself to sleep, wondering how much happier everyone around me would be with me gone, worrying about how many times I checked the door handle before I left the house; I realized that what I was going through wasn’t normal.
At some points life seems impossible. Truly impossible.
But I’m making it.
RUMINATING 