As the last phrase echoed through the room, the tears I fought so desperately to suppress bubbled to the surface. Sad eyes looked from my speech and looked at the audience, tears carving a path down their faces. It was in that moment, that very moment, that I realized why. Why I had lived a nightmare. Why hell was a place I called home? Why my life has kicked me when I’m down. I’m here to help someone out there, to tell my story.

Depression. Anxiety. Self-harm. Eating disorder. Suicide. The words trigger an uncomfortable tension at their utterance. It’s awkward. It’s uncomfortable. It’s scary. And, it shouldn’t be that way. It shouldn’t be the case that mental health is looked upon as a character flaw. It shouldn’t be the case that depression is thought to be fixable by ‘just getting over it.’ It shouldn’t be the case that eating disorders are considered vain and narcissistic. I knew the stereotype and they’re part of the reason I kept quiet for so long. I didn’t want people to look at me differently, treat me differently, or think of me differently than a perfectly happy girl, which I desperately wished I truly was.

When I published my first article, I didn’t know what would happen. I thought maybe, just maybe, someone out there would read it and feel a little better about themselves. However, what happened was something out of a movie. I shared the article on Facebook and tried to distract myself from the fact that everyone was reading the emotions, the secrets I had hidden for so long: I’m not ok. I hate myself. I don’t think I’m loved, wanted. In an effort to avoid the anxiety of posting something so intimate so publicly, I walked away from my phone, computer, everything that connected me to the outside world for a while. After my apprehension subsided, I gravitated toward the electronic. I was greeted by calls, texts, Facebook messages all from different people, all expressing their love of my strength, my wisdom, my honesty. The messages that really stood out for me is the messages I received from people I barely knew, confessing their own personal struggles, explaining how much the article touched them. Every phrase, every word, every letter brought tears to my eyes and love to my heart. This is what I need to do.

I want to change something. I want to help someone. I want to make a difference. I want someone sitting, alone and afraid, to read my story, my honesty, and realize that we all feel afraid in this world. We all feel alone. That’s why I write. Because everyone deserves to feel wanted, to feel loved. And, there’s nothing worse than thinking you’re the only one crying with you head into a gallon of ice cream. I’m not brave, or strong. This is who I am: my struggles, my triumphs, my faults, my flaws. I know what it’s like to feel alone and afraid in this world. If it’s in my power, I’ll do whatever it takes to prevent anyone from feeling that way. I don’t want to be remembered as Rachel the girl who had an eating disorder. I want to be remembered as Rachel the girl that left it all on the line, bore her heart and soul for others. I want to help. I want to make a difference. No one deserves to feel alone in this world. Maybe if we all opened up a little bit more, we might just find the love we’ve been craving for so long. The love from others, the love from ourselves.