I was fifteen when my insides died.

When my brain, the one that used to fill me up with ideas and dreams of becoming somebody, shut down and turned grey. The only thing I could fill up with anymore was numbness and Ben and Jerrys PB & Cookie Ice Cream. My dreams of graduating high school faded, college too, becoming a mother flew out the window because I'm not good enough to have children.

And moreover, finding love? Who would want to date me? I'm a mess.

My feet, the ones that I used to dance on effortlessly, carrying me on pointe shoes across the stage floor. Those died too. I barely used them because my days were spent laying down on the living room couch underneath a snowman blanket staring at a blue No Signal screen- I couldn't even move to turn the TV on.

I lost friends, so that died. I shut down and blocked everyone out, retreating to the world of nothing where it was just me and the whispers in my head telling me that I'll always be like this.

The school psychologist told me to write 7 positive statements about myself from a list on a yellow sticky note- to go home and stick them to the mirror that I look in everyday. So I lied, because what is positive about me?

I did it anyways and put the damn things up. Tearing them down days later with tears running down my face and screaming "FUCK YOU" at the mirror. They went back up. Then came down. They went back up. Then I destroyed them by throwing a snow globe at the mirror, the glass shattering and falling to the floor where it stuck into my feet.

I bought a new mirror, and they went back up. They stayed up.

I was alone. I had no friends. No life. No motivation. I spent New Years sitting infront of the TV as the years changed expecting to feel an enlightment but I only felt numb. Hopeless and sad. I left the living room where my family cheered for the new year and new opportunities, and cried in the bathroom because I couldn't see it.

I tore down the sticky notes one more time, and they stayed down for a while. I kept seeing the psychologist and started talking to my mom who always was so understanding. I kept waiting and waiting for that one day- that one special day where I would wake up and the depression would be gone. I would have one final breakdown and voila it's all gone.

It didn't work like that.

Instead, I learned that mental illness is like raising a child. The most horrible child. You have to reform them and teach them that Hey, telling me I'm not worth it isn't okay. Or, I'm safe stop telling my brain to go into fight or flight mode in the middle of a fucking CVS.

"We're all single parents to our mental illnesses." That's what my mom told me.

Slowly, my dead body parts had a Jesus moment and reincarnated. My brain turned back on and I decided I wanted to be a nurse. I got some of my friends back and let go of the ones that didn't matter anymore.

I grew closer to my four best friends, the ones that I only knew through a groupchat and midnight skype calls. Minus the one that was my cousin.

I told my dad to basically go fuck himself which resulted in the worst anxiety attack I ever had but hey, he never let me be the parent coordinator again. Stopped hiding underneath a snowman blanket and started to live again.

I stopped finding myself at the bottom of ice cream pints and instead just looked in the mirror. I cut my hair short and changed my look. Started smiling more and loving who I was.

I cured my depresssion!

Summer passed and school started again, I was the happiest I ever been then like thunder rolling in on a blue sky- it came back.

I will never be cured from my mental illness because a mental illness is apart of you. I will only recover and I haven't done that.

I've relapsed and now I can only find myself in the biterness of black coffee. I'm standing here, with all the tools I have aquired from those gruling months- with the knowledge of what to do when I have these moments. But I'm letting the rain from my storm pummel me.

I'm waiting for that big enlightment. The enlightment that will never come. But I know I can start out slowly, little-by-little. I will be okay this time.

I believe one day I will recover. Even though now, at 8 in the morning as I write this- I don't see it. I don't see much.

I came out of this once, even if it was just for a couple of months. Ranging from April-September. But I will do it again. I will have my 6 months of happiness again, but I will make it forever.

I once saw a poem in a book, one of the many that I read during the first round of dark days, it said:

"Sometimes it can snow as late as May, but summer always comes."

If you are ever in a crisis or in need of help, or simply someone to talk to and listen to you, please call 1-800-273-8255. I have called them before and always felt better after the fact. Or if you are not in a positition to call, text HOME to 741741. These services are confidential, free, and avalible to you 24/7.

Be safe.