If you were to tell my teenage self that, as a twenty-something year old, that she would wear pink and listen to Top 40 radio, she wouldn't believe you. Then again, that same girl experienced depression so debilitating that she didn't think she would make it into adulthood. She clung to music and writing because she felt that they were the only things that made her feel complete.

Being emo wasn't really me. I didn't have tracks in my hair or wear lip piercings. But it was how my family saw me. I was always the little black sheep in the family because I wore black so much and ran to the bedroom when company was around. I didn't have friends due to attachment issues. Because I was different, I was emo.

After my first year in high school, I wasn't as emo. I had a few close friends (who, okay, were into anime and bad poetry) and tried to become involved in extracurriculars with them. I still had suicidal thoughts but I held on; college was creeping closer. I introduced color into my wardrobe and smiled more often. I thought the nightmares and insecurities would be gone for good when I left for college.

I had bottled my problems for so long though about suicide and depression that when I did start my first year, things went horribly. I had lost the Freshman 15 out of stress; my roommates irritated me constantly; I was homesick; etc. By the end of the year, my mind couldn't take it anymore; I started to hallucinate. I was then hospitalized and vowed to myself never to return to Tallahassee, much less school, again.

Over the years of recovery, I would read my teenage diaries and listen to my teenage bands. While everyone was moving forth into adulthood and enjoying their independence at college, I remained at home and/or recovery centers. I felt stuck; I didn't want to go back to school because of my paranoia. But I got over my fear and decided to go back.

I did get a little too excited about school like my first year in college; I dyed and cut my hair frequently and pierced my nose twice. I was always interested in so many subjects that my dream to be a writer was put on the side many times. It wasn't until 2014 when I nearly died from a suicide attempt that I would be diagnosed with Bipolar disorder, type 1. Once given that as my illness, I began to take precaution; it became easier to detect triggers and symptoms of my manias and depressions.

I share my diagnosis because being emo is conditional to it. I was treated differently from my own family for being "emo" while now, I am treated differently from everyone else for having a mental illness. It took years for me to accept my illness—because that meant I would have to accept those emo teenage years I spent by myself. I don't mind being different; I still listen to obscure bands. But I'm not going to let people tell me how to feel anymore. I am in charge of my life, after all.