This is a story that I'm sure a lot of people share. It is a not-so-secret secret, if you will. It is a story that I've written and told many times before, whether anyone has listened or not, but it is not a particularly easy story to tell. I don't think it's really all that easy for anyone to tell, but then again, here we are.

If I were to wrap this story up in a box and give it a name it would be... "broken." I choose broken because, even now, that is how I see it. A mass of broken psyche's coming to a devastating crescendo all at once, like a chord struck on an out-of-tune violin.

This story begins in the dark. A moonless night, perhaps. Or even the middle of the day. I cannot pinpoint exactly when it all started, nor can I tell you how it all came to what it was, but I can tell you that it began in the dark. I like to think that it was a seed growing in the recesses of my mind, growing and morphing and becoming... a thing. A thing that was a shadow, ominous and hiding, and with this creature forming in my mind came something else- a feeling. A sense of pure hopelessness, of despair.

Imagine that feeling. The feeling that you don't belong, that you're too broken to even exist. The sense that there is no hope left for you. Is that scary? It was for me.

Over the summer months before my freshman year I watched as my head slipped away from me. I watched my smiles become thin lines of complacency, as my days passed by more slowly, as the hours were spent asleep, as what hope I had slipped from between my fingers.

Have you guessed what I'm talking about yet? If you thought "depression", then you're correct. Often I look at depression as that ever changing monster. Some see it as drowning with your face just barely below the surface of the water, or being trapped in a room alone. My answer, however, still remains that depression is a monster- a beast that hides in the depths of your sorrows. Depression is a creature waiting to pounce on you at your most vulnerable.

For me depression was a sequence. The beginning of the cycle always starts with sleep deprivation. I remember being too afraid to sleep at night, too afraid of my thoughts. So instead of sleeping I stayed up all night. I took care of my friends instead of myself, for they were feeling the same way. "I don't deserve to sleep" was my mantra. Often I would go to sleep and four or five in the morning, wake up at six, and go about my day.

I drank a lot of coffee.

A few weeks, or perhaps a few months- that time is still a blur, was when I started to realize that something was wrong. Before that moment, it never occurred to me that I was feeling as terrible as I was. I never saw it as "I am currently feeling hopeless", but as I came to realize that something was wrong, I began to question what exactly that thing was:

"Why do I feel bad?

"What did I do?

"What can I do to fix it?"

And, most importantly, "What's wrong with me?"

These were all very introspective questions. I never thought to talk to someone about it, never once did that idea cross my broken mind. It's also important to notice that each of these questions were directed by me to me. As if I really was broken.

For a very long time I couldn't figure out what was wrong or how to fix it. That hurt, a lot. It was very difficult to understand why I couldn't just... be happy one day. Why all this "sadness and hopelessness" business couldn't just be done and over with.

Now, I knew of depression, I knew what people who had depression did, and one day it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I was depressed.

"Nonononono", I thought to myself, "no, I can't be depressed... I mean, look at... at Austin! Yea, look at Austin! He's got it so much worse than me right now, how can I find a reason to be so upset?"

And that's where it all started.

"My problems aren't big enough to be upset over."

"Everyone else has it worse."

"I'm not valid."

Over and over and over again phrases such as those would play over and over in my head. You could read my journals from that time and see it.

"I feel so bad, but I shouldn't."

"What's wrong with me?"

I felt lonely. Lonely and broken and isolated and... I just felt inadequate. Inadequate in every way. I wasn't a good daughter, I wasn't a good friend, I couldn't draw correctly, I couldn't write the words I wanted, I couldn't speak.

So over and over that's what I told myself.

"You're not good enough. You're not good enough. You're not good enough. You're not good enough. You're not good enough. You're... you're not good enough. You're not good enough. You're not good enough. You're not good enough. You're not good enough. YOU'RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH! YOU'RENOTGOODENOUGHYOU'RENOTGOODENOUGHYOU'RENOTGOODENOUGH!"

. . .

Then one day... I guess that one day I thought it was all over. That there was nothing left for me. Because on that one day new scars blossomed on my body. Nice, beautiful, dripping, red ones. The physical pain dulled the pain I felt inside. The cool steel of my pocket knife quelled the hot, burning ache that was burning through my heart and soul. So I sat alone and with that new information did what you might expect with that knife. I cut myself.

For months I used knives as a way to cope with the agony I was in. I would cry and scream in my head, but a few slices from those knives would give me solace enough to sleep. Thin white lines littered my wrists and hands and shoulders three, newer red ones appeared regularly. I kept each and every pocket knife in my possession razor sharp.

I didn't think it could get any worse until it did.

We went back to school in August whereupon I was reunited with my best friend, Austin. We both felt the same, and we (perhaps jokingly) made a pact. I'm sure you can all guess of what type.

I actually enjoyed most of my classes. Austin and I made a new friend. For a moment everything seemed okay, but of course it wasn't. I still went home and cried, I still didn't sleep, I still cut myself.

One day a teacher overheard Austin and I talking about that, and she reported us. I can't remember exactly what day it was, I didn't and don't put dates on my journal entries, but it happened mid-late September of my Freshman year. I was sitting behind Sean, my new friend, in Geography when I was called to go to the counselor's office with all of my things. Sean looked at me with a pair of eyes obviously asking, "Excuse me, what did you do?". I just shrugged. I genuinely didn't know what I'd done.

As it turned out, Austin had been called to. We were made to sit silently facing away from each other. No classwork, no phones, no computers until our parents came to get us. We were "a risk to ourselves and others". We had to get a risk assessment before we could return to school. Heartbroken is the kindest of descriptions for the pain I felt that day.

The ride back home was agony. I sat quietly, staring out the window while I cried. My dad already knew most of what they'd told him. The tension was so thick you could have used it as a pillow. I kept thinking about what I was missing.

"My friends.. My friends need me, right? I.. I can't be missing school."

"I'm missing practice. Oh god, I'm missing practice! The band needs me! I... I can't... I... " Over and over, similar thoughts swirled behind my tear filled eyes.

We went that day to get the risk assessment. They told us that it'd take at least two days to get it back to us to go to school. It was, I believe, a Wednesday.

I remember that walking up to, and then out of, the mental health office was a nightmare. It was a big, windowless, concrete building standing ominously behind the half dead crepe myrtles that lined the sidewalk. A building hidden in the industrial area of town, just a few hundred yards from the fat refinery.

The next day I found out that Austin was already back at school. Just imagine my devastation. I did make it back by the middle of the next week, only for a similar situation to arise.

I'd signed up for an ACT Practice Workshop. I mean, why not? The ACT was and still is one of the few options I have for getting a college education. It was on the Sunday after I got back to school, and I needed someone to tell me when I needed to be there. The principal was the one organizing all this mess for the students, so she was who I emailed. I got a fairly prompt response and that was that. On Sunday I took the practice and made a twenty eight. I felt good. When we got back to the school the principal walked up to me and asked me to come to the office.

"You're dad's already waiting for us,'' she said in her sickly sweet voice.

I was confused. That, of all things, is what I remember the most from that moment. Just a sense of pure confusion. I didn't know what I did, but I'd obviously done something.

I'll spare you the details, but I ended up needing yet another risk assessment. I ended up, again, sitting at home crying- wondering what was wrong with me.

I found myself spiraling down, far further than I'd spiraled before. You see, I had a week to get back into school. Why? Because our state competition was that Saturday. I remember feeling a grandiose sense of despair wash over me. No longer was I just failing myself, but I was failing other people. I was failing my band, my second family.

My world felt darker and bleaker than it ever had before. My arms were more scarred, I clawed at my skin, I was terrified, and all I could do was hope.

Hope, however, wasn't enough.

We went to take the risk exam the next day, arriving at the same nightmarish place. The same intimidating concrete structure hiding behind the deathly frames of an autumn crepe myrtle. This time we spoke to a different therapist, a man by the name of Jason.

Jason didn't take kindly to me, what with my cat ears and paint stained denim shirt contrasting so starkly with his slicked back hair and freshly pressed, pristine white dress shirt. The juxtaposition, I assure you, was surreal.

It was here where I made my fatal mistake, I was me. I spoke in metaphors that I then explained as such, I talked about what I liked to do, I explained that what I'd done was simply a mistake, because it was. The assessment that I got in return was everything I was afraid of.

"Please let this letter serve as confirmation that Carolyn Wilkinson Received a risk assessment from Region 8 Mental Health Services on October 9, 2017 upon recommendation of the McLaurin High School. At the time of the risk assessment, Carolyn denied current thoughts of harming self or others. Individual demonstrated bizarre behaviors during the assessment. She talked about a man 'with the fuzzy beard upstairs' and 'little Carolyn who's behind the curtain.' Carolyn admitted a suicide attempt two months ago. Therapist discussed treatment options.

"Due to her bizarre behavior, we recommend psychiatric inpatient treatment. Upon discharge from inpatient treatment, we recommend that she continue outpatient treatment. Therapist offered to schedule an appointment for inpatient assessment, but her father stated he wanted to talk to his wife before making any decisions. Therapist provided him the contact information from Brentwood, Alliance, and Pine Grove. If you require any additional information, please contact me at the number listed below. Thank you for your consideration in this matter."

I knew, as well as dad, that such an assessment wouldn't get me back into school, and with that I was crushed. I'd gotten it back so far into the week that there was little to no chance that I'd be able to compete with my band. What little hope I had was gone, and I was devastated.

The day of the competition came and passed. I couldn't even manage to go support them, I was so upset with myself that I just laid on the floor and cried into a bean bag. I felt like there was nothing I could do. I felt helpless and alone. I felt broken.

Eventually I made my way back into school, but the journey to get back was so traumatizing to me that I started carrying a plush everywhere I went. Often I would break down in the middle of classes, pressing my face into that plush and silently sobbing. Sometimes I would break down in the middle of the hallway and fall to the floor. Other times I would leave class under the guise of using the restroom and hide instead.

Since that time about two years ago, I don't think I've been the same. Those few short weeks changed me, and I'm not sure they changed me for the better. However, I did learn something new. I resolved myself to stop cutting and instead took to writing. I wrote about a short story a day for a long time just trying to feel better. Eventually it worked. Over the course of the few months following my reintroduction to high school life, I wrote two full journals. In fact, there are entries from while it was happening- most of which are rather vulgar.

I learned that my coping mechanism is writing. To get thoughts out of my head I must write our draw them out. I must put my story to paper instead of letting it fester in my own consciousness. Using this knowledge, something miraculous happened. Something that, just a bit before, I didn't think could happen.

I healed.