“The most important thing about recovery is to pass the message on.” – Maurice Gibb
Back when I was growing up, I was always the odd one out. I was always the tallest, I was always the largest, I was the quietest, and I was by the account of my aggressors, the one and only one without a backbone. Aside from my exterior, I was smart – a straight A student, and talented. But of course I was never able to see that. I could never get past the idea that I was the only eleven year old buying size twelve women’s jeans, that I didn’t look petite like all the other girls, that I didn’t really know who Erika was. For the longest time I wouldn’t dare look someone in the eye as they spoke. When someone called me “pretty” they would snicker right after, tormenting me by allowing me to realize that what I wanted more than anything was unattainable to me. I was mocked. Beaten. Hurt for being different. In high school I became prisoner to my insecurities. It felt like my heart and my mind became overcome by such darkness caused by years of pain, years of suffering. I became a self-harmer. I was disgusted with myself. I refused to look at myself. I turned to an eating disorder as a coping method. Purging became my way of releasing my anxiety and my tensions. For the first time in my life I felt like I was going to die. I still remember how much it hurt me – more than my illness ever did – realizing I was withering away day, after day, after day. I remember crying, looking at myself sixty pounds lighter, and a hundred times sadder. I felt a moment of loss, I knew in the back of my mind I was going to be gone soon, so I took a final walk in my city’s downtown. What happens next may sound weird, but it was the words of a homeless man that gave me wings. As I reached out to hand him a Starbucks coffee he said to me: “What would we do without you?” It was that moment when my heart, once trapped by anxiety and stress felt free. It felt like it was mine again. He was right. I had a purpose in this life. And that purpose was not to live a life of pain. I finally, after a year of battling depression was able to tell myself that I had a purpose. I mustered up the courage to ask for help. At this point I have been a bulimic for six months and harming myself almost daily. I refused to try medications until necessary, so instead I was enrolled into an art class with other eating disorder survivors. When my pen touched a sketchpad, or when I sat down to write a story, I felt the pain just leave my heart and splatter onto the page. I was able to feel relief. I continued counselling for a year, and today I still write. I still paint. I still draw to release my negative feelings and my anxiety.
As I am writing this to you, I have been in good health for nine months. This journey is never easy, and it is not always pretty. Recovery is possible, and despite feeling like you have no one, there will always be a community of survivors that have your back; a community that understands, a community that will celebrate you for embracing your purpose – to be here, and to find peace with yourself. That is something that mental illness will never take away from you.
-By Erin, age 19