By Ana Thomas
February 20, 2023

When I was a little girl, my hands were almost as busy as my mind. I always had to move my fingers, pick at something, play sports, turn pages, or dig in the dirt. I had a pink elephant named Pinky. I loved her and in four-year-old terms this meant I kept her with me at all times with pictures to prove it. But I tore her to shreds with my right-hand thumb and middle finger while my left hand had two fingers secured in my mouth. My parents were adamant on breaking my toddler habits before I started Kindergarten, but they were not successful in curing my innate restlessness. With time, I only grew more active, which meant cuts and scabs littered my body as proof of life. This little girl became skilled at picking her scabs leaving scars to commemorate outdoor playdates and adventures with my siblings. Young Ana also had an affinity for fresh notebooks and office supplies. She loved to write, to draw, and to create. As you can imagine, I was quite the gift my parents prayed for.

Now, writing is liberating. But first, it hurts. I begin each of my writings with the intention to create, yet it begins to feel like I’m picking at my scabs. Except these scabs aren’t so superficial and the scars they leave are uglier and deeper than the ones on my arms and legs. We haven’t even begun to discuss the scars on my wrists. Or worse, the scar on my stomach. The physical scars are painful reminders of what I have survived. They’re also reminders of the fact that I have survived. I can think of three separate times where scars meant a visit to the hospital. Once for stitches, another for surgery and once for a psychiatric stay. Stitches meant that I had to sit out from the beginning of my senior volleyball tryouts. Surgery meant I missed an entire spring training season with a cast on my dominant arm and hours of physical therapy. My psychiatric stay was followed by months of mandatory and voluntary therapy, check-ins and restrictions. Scars and survival are generally followed by a period of healing. But you also have to do your part to actively heal, so it also means there will be some sacrifice.

So to me, survival isn’t as great as it sounds. It means I’ve won, but the win feels like a suspended trophy. You can have it as long as you don’t mess up again. As corny as this sounds, I’d rather life a life where I thrive, and I want to skip the healing phase to get there. I understand that’s not how life works, so here I am, healing and surviving. Here’s what I have to say about that.

Healing sucks. It’s not always self-love manicures, late night tea and journaling at sunrise. It feels like some steps forward, some steps back. I don’t even think I can really measure it. The progress I make one day gives me so much hope, and then the next day I could wake up with tears streaming down my face, old fears revived and suddenly emerging from bed is a monumental achievement. Some nights I go to sleep with an aching rib cage from crying so hard and screams of anguish all day. Those are the days where I privately purge the pain and anger I try so hard to hide. Some days I dance through the kitchen and turn the house speaker on to drown out those anxious thoughts with music in an attempt to have a good day; the bad days are just so exhausting. And sometimes the music is sad, because a sad day is better than a numb day. But numb day is rest day and that’s good, too. Here, I begin to doubt myself and whether I’ve made any progress at all and then my best friends are there to inspire me and remind me to keep going. This is why I will always say: surround yourself with people who challenge, encourage, and inspire you to be the best, most authentic, and genuine version of yourself. These words aren’t meant to live on a screen; they are exactly how I strive to live my life. That’s why when Nyla drove to my house, picked out my clothes, pulled me off the couch and demanded that I wash my face and run errands with her; I obliged. She knew what I needed in that moment and she rose to the occasion as any great friend does. That’s why Megan moved out of the comfort of her home and into mine for two weeks after my psychiatric stay so that I knew I was not alone. She even did my dishes for me. That’s why my parents called every day to check on me until I assured them that I would be okay. That’s why Bre and I have dinner together at least once a week and now the waitresses at Old Chicago know to bring milk with my pizza (its for the crust, I swear). That’s why I have a group of men in my life who always remember to pull me aside, look me in the eye and make sure that I’m doing okay. And I’m grateful that they’re willing to be tough for their friend on the days that she can’t be. And that’s why two of my best friends, Allie and Kam, drove hours across state borders to surprise me on MLK Weekend to remind me that I am loved and worthy. I understand its not easy to watch your friend heal, and that’s why the appreciation I have for my family of friends is best described as: infinite.

Healing is how I’m paving my path to become my truest self. But why is that important? Am I a narcissist because I’m obsessed with being more myself? I think my obsession comes from being pulled astray for so long that I could no longer see purpose in my life. Lacking purpose led to thoughts that I was better off ending my life. In retrospect, this is a scary place to be. However, in the moment, it’s an intoxicating reality. It feels sort of like you’re actually living in that 3D movie you were only supposed to be watching. And maybe you are still watching your life go by, but it’s definitely not from the theater’s recliner anymore. Now you’re being yanked or perhaps stumbling from scene to scene. So maybe a few narcissistic qualities is a risk I’m willing to take when falling in love with myself and saving my life. And let me say, that 1. Retrospectively acknowledging my suicidal tendencies is a sign of progress that I’ll accept, and 2. I know that any sacrifice I make to heal is really a worthwhile investment.