Dear you,  

I know you are struggling right now and I have been there too. I have dug out a hollow in that cave and called it home. Believed I would live there forever. 

And it’s true, I spent years there. Whole decades smeared into symptoms. I was certain I couldn’t withstand another panic attack, that anorexia would kill me, that I would never make it out of high school, that those long inky nights would never stop stretching. And I kept all of this a secret. A shame that was not mine to carry. And it is not yours either.

When I could feel paranoia rebuilding my reality, when I felt unsafe everyday – like I was on the edge of something I could not articulate – I couldn’t bear it anymore. I was on study leave and I had spent hours each day hiding behind the couch so I was not visible from outside of the house. I was scared to spend another day alone.

I had already researched; I could recite John Kirwan’s website on depression as if it was a prayer, but I looked at it again anyway. I listed out my symptoms; I rehearsed what I would say; and then I asked my mum to take me to the doctor. And she did.   

And yes, the journey was messy. No, I was not always met with compassion. They said I was too dramatic, too complex, too needy, too much. They said maybe I would never recover. And I believed them. 

But I believed the ones who came later too. Who saw me – really saw me – and diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder. Suddenly, I had a whole new language. I felt my life, my history, everything I knew of myself, click into place. The relief made me dizzy. They told me instead that I was resilient, hurting, passionate, desperate for relief, brave. They told me we could work on it together. 

Now, I have such grief when I look back at my younger self. How hard she was trying, how desperate she was, how often she was let down. She deserved better and she deserved more. As an adult, she lives inside of me and I get to advocate for her every day. I say no when she would have said yes. I speak up when she would have said nothing. I walk away when she would have stayed. Everything I do is a love poem to her and that day that she reached out, said “help me” and waited for someone to take her hand. 

Trust me, there is always someone who will take your hand, who will listen, who will keep the hope pulsing when you have nothing left to give. It is not too late. You are worth the risk, the fear, the discomfort. There is a future version of yourself watching you now and they are so proud. Listen. They are calling your name.