When I was 17, I had the word 'resilience' tattooed on my wrist. After battling anxiety and depression for many years, I decided that it was time to commemorate my strength by inking my skin with that one word.
That one word, composed of ten simple letters, has such a strong meaning. It baffles me how a string of ten random symbols from the alphabet can have such an impact on my psyche.
When I had it tattooed on my skin, it was a symbol of strength and bravery. I was strong for battling through what was going on in my mind. I was strong for taking steps forward everyday despite my mind trying its absolute hardest to drag me miles back. I was strong for being alive because it is not an easy task for anyone who knows the fight against mental illnesses.
It was a reminder of strength, but on some days, it was quite the opposite. There would be days when I would look down on my wrist and feel that I was embarrassingly weak rather than strong. The mornings that I would wake up and fight through a day that was just not good for me mentally, I would look down and think, "if I was truly resilient, I would not be hurting right now. I would be fighting back and telling myself that this indescribable feeling does not own me." Some mornings I just couldn't do that. Some days I just hurt.
On those days of sadness, I regretted ever thinking that it was a good idea to have such a powerful word put on my body of all people. "I am not resilient. I am weak," I remember thinking. I wanted it gone. I no longer wanted to even be reminded of the demons that I had to fend off daily. I wanted all of it gone. I specifically chose to have it inked on my wrist so I would be forced to look at it everyday, but I regretted it down the road. I tried not to look at it because instead of filling me with power like I intended that it would, it simply hurt me. It felt like a punch in the gut to look down at those ten letters when my mind had stolen the best of me that day. A piece of my brain took that beautiful thing from me and twisted it into something disgusting until I no longer wanted it.
Now, at almost a young 19 years old, I still have my hard days; my days when I don't necessarily feel like the fiercely strong girl that I know I am, but instead of being ashamed of the word that I chose to permanently put on my skin, I am reminded of the hopeful 17 year old girl who walked into the tattoo shop one morning ready to change her life. The girl who was mentally exhausted just from living. The girl who didn't want to give up, and she wouldn't, but she needed a push- a reminder to fight.
I have grown from the nights I would look at my wrist and cry because I did not feel worthy to have that word on my body. Today, I look at my wrist and smile because I am here, and because my anxiety and depression can kiss my ass.
I went from loving my tattoo, to hating it with a burning passion, to adoring it again. It reminds me that healing is not linear, and that is okay. Do not let your days of sadness discourage you from fighting for a life full of happiness.
The two of them still invade my mind, but I will never give them the satisfaction of ripping me apart ever again. I will never again be that girl who is ashamed of my battles.
The bullies in my head may be a part of me, but they are not me. They do not define me. They can't tell me that I am not worthy because I am, and there is no question about it. I am the only thing on this earth that is allowed to label myself, and I have. I've labeled myself resilient.
To anyone out there that is hurting: make the choice to fight. Fight until you win; until you've taken back your life that was stolen from you by invisible forces. You are the only person who can take back what's yours. Ultimately, you have to save yourself. There is no greater feeling than waking up excited to be alive.
