Hair.

They say you can tell when a woman has gone through changes in her life based on her hair. When she goes through a breakup, you can expect her hair to be different in some way. Whether that means it's shorter, styled differently, or maybe a whole new color, it means something is happening in her life and she just wants a change.

How it all began.

My doctor says I am considered a human with mild depression and anxiety. Trying to battle it alone didn't work. So we brought in people for me to talk to; that somewhat worked. But just because I say things out loud, doesn't mean that it all disappears. It is still there, just more than me, myself, and I, know about it. So in today's world, the next treatment is a small little pill that has the power to control your whole life because, obviously, you can't control your own life anymore.

Control.

Control is something that, for almost a year now, I haven't had. I have my life, which I am grateful for because I could not have it, but I don't have control. The medicine is supposed to make me into the person I use to be before this all started taking a toll on me. At times it felt like it was working but other times it didn't. Then those times where it didn't work became an everyday thing. So, new medicine, the same pattern; still no control.

Split ends.

Split ends are something that I hate. I hate when I let it get so bad that the ends of my hair feel like straw; no matter how much coconut oil I use. The easiest way to solve that problem is to just cut it off. This is no big deal because just a little snip-snip here and there is healthy. The more time I spent outside or in salt water, the more frequent I would have to cut the straw ends of my hair off. Each time I would cut a little more off than the previous time. The other night, I reached the point of where I couldn't stop cutting it. Because for the first time in forever, I've had control of something. Control of something that was a part of me and can change me. I did that myself; no pills, no talking to anyone, all on my own because I was able to control when I could stop or start again. Before I started cutting it that night, my hair that was long enough to reach the back of my bra strap, maybe even a longer than that if I straighten it. Once I was finished, it hovered over my collarbone only able to brush my shoulders if it was straightened.

This is how hair, control, and split ends all come together in my battle with mental illness. Mental illness can take the "you" from you. It changes you into someone else because all you hear is, "you're not the same (insert your name) that I know. What happened to (insert your pronoun)? I miss (insert your pronoun.)" Well I don't know. But if you find her let me know because this person is blank and is just a body because I don't have control over it. But when I am able to feel how hard and rough my hair is, I am able to make a change. Because maybe this change will be able to change me back into who I need to be.

A haircut can do wonders for your looks. In this case, it gives me power and I honestly don't care what it looks like because maybe this is the inner strength I need to start to get better.

"There's the positive thinking girl I know and love."

snip.

snip.

snip.

Control.