First Year of Teaching

This first year of teaching was incredibly hard. It was full of so much joy and also so much heartache. There were some of those "golden moments" where I realized that it was all worth it, and then there were the stressful moments in between where I questioned everything I ever believed to be true. I learned to love more fully, forgive more quickly, and listen more compassionately. I learned that sometimes you have to laugh at the stupid things in life because it is just too dang short not to. I learned that sometimes having true control in life is when we have zero control and accept it for what it is. I learned that no matter how much bribery goes down, I cannot make another human being do what I want them to do. I learned that being perfect doesn't mean you are the best and that being the best doesn't mean you are perfect. I learned that not everything gets done and that's okay. I learned that there are people in this world who are better off with me in it.

I never knew that teaching would give me so much. It gave me a reason to wake up each morning and it taught me how to persevere. My students gave me something to laugh about every single day and gave me perspective when things were falling apart.

*Some* Golden Moments

1) When my student from Brazil actually tried to speak English to get his point across and used everything possible to do so.

2) When my students wrote me letters and sang to me in Portuguese for my birthday. 

3) When I asked a student who was having a hard time, he begrudgingly acknowledged I cared for him unconditionally.

4) When the music teacher at my school arranged a beautiful performance for Teacher Appreciation week and my students shared some of the kindest words I have ever been told.

5) When I put a TON of planning into a really fun activity that ACTUALLY WORKED and every one of my students said "Thanks for planning this. It was SO much fun."

6) When I got an apology letter (or two or five) from students that made me remember why I love them

7) When the kid who has struggled all year long got a FOUR (highest score) on his SAGE writing

8) When a kid who had fallen SUPER behind turned to me and said "Thanks for making me do these missing assignments. I now realize why it's important to stay on top of my work."

9) When my students told me their favorite subject was Social Studies (because it's mine, too!)

10) When one of my "cool" students stood up for a classmate at recess without anyone pressuring him to do so and didn't tell me to get praise. He just did it.

11) When I taught my students about 9/11 and it was just about the most humbling experience of my entire life because they got it.

12) When I taught my students about mindfulness and they articulated the experience in such a beautiful way.

13) When one of students worked hard to persevere through academic difficulties.

14) When I surprised my partner teacher for her birthday by singing Happy Birthday in Portuguese

15) Any time my lesson went "better than expected"

16) Any time a parent or student reminded me that I was making a difference

17) When my students told me they would rather have me teach them than have a sub.

18) When I got stuck in a meeting and was late getting to my class after specialties, but every one of my students was in their seat reading a book quietly.

19) When the boys (who put up a big stink at the beginning) started to love my "girlie" read aloud book.

20) Every time one of my students gasped as I read out loud or BEGGED me to keep going so they could find out what happened next.

21) When my students would use a vocabulary word we learned in their daily speech.

22) That moment when I realized I genuinely love every one of my students, and not just because I'm supposed to. 

*Some* Not-So Golden Moments

1) When I came back to school after a sub and found out my kids had been SUPER naughty.

2) When I found out that students had stolen "money" from my class money jar.

3) When my students had a million and one missing assignments (oh wait, all year).

4) Every time I had to remind them to be quiet in the halls

5) When I almost passed out once because periods are the worst I was "sick"

6) When I lost my voice after Clear Creek for what seemed like an eternity (but was only 2 weeks)

7) When I resorted to caffeine to get me through day

8) When my students asked me if I was tired, but really I just hadn't bothered with mascara/ make up

9) Any time I banned anything that just straight-up annoyed me (bottle flipping, "21", dabbing, trifecta spinners, Juan, chesssss, etc.)

10) Whenever I made a student cry (whoops!)

Borderline Personality Disorder, Check ✔

Not a ton of people know that during the past year, my diagnosis has changed from depression, PTSD, and/or anxiety to Borderline Personality. It was a HUGE shock to me and took some major radical acceptance. I have known for a long time that there was something seriously wrong with me (I knew my thought processes were not "normal"), but nobody believed me or understood it. It didn't make sense that I could graduate from college, maintain relationships, get a job, and be responsible while also struggling with some serious disordered thinking. The truth is that we can't see other people's struggles on the outside. Internally, we can be a chaotic mess and yet still present an external appearance of calm and togetherness. It's a difficult place to be in when everything seems alright to the outside world, but inside you're falling apart.

For years I have been saying "I'm crazy" or "My brain doesn't work like everybody else's", but most people have come back and said "Everybody feels that way at some point" or "You're twenty, you're just figuring out who you are." People don't want to admit that "normal" people get mental illnesses because then it makes the possibility of it real for them. People want to blame someone or something for mental illnesses, but sometimes they just happen to regular people.

Borderline Personality is definitely a more severe diagnosis than say the common depression. Not that I'm trying to belittle depression, because those feelings are real and valid and are such a struggle. However, Borderline is a more complex disorder that requires a much different approach. Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is an emotional disregulation disorder that makes it difficult to process and cope with emotions. What in the Hell does that mean? Yeah, I'm still figuring it out, too!

A lot of times people hear Borderline Personality Disorder and think Multiple Personality Disorder. Those are two completely different disorders. I do not have a split personality or have various versions of myself. I don't switch into another person and there aren't voices talking to me in my head. I feel for anyone in those situations, but I am not one of them. Borderline Personality Disorder has a lot to do with emotional chaos and an inability to control or process emotions in a healthy way.

Although there is a huge stigma surrounding BPD, Borderline Personality isn't an insult or character flaw, it's an emotional disorder. It can be treated through therapy to retrain thought processes and core values. People with BPD aren't emotionally stunted, instead they feel things too strongly. Instead of feeling emotions at a normal level, BPD emotional levels start higher. While a normal person might be at a 10 when they are feeling an emotion very strongly, a person with BPD starts at a 9 or a 10. Then when something happens, it sends the emotion levels off the charts and the person has a hard time coping.

Borderline Personality is a biosocial disorder meaning that it develops through a combination of biological (genetics) and environmental (life) factors. Having one factor or the other doesn't lead to Borderline. It takes the combination of the two in order for it to present itself. If you've ever taken a biology class, you have some idea of how genetics work. As far as environmental factors, Borderline Personality develops through consistent invalidation of oneself. That is a little confusing so I'll explain that a little more.

Invalidation comes when someone's thoughts or emotions are invalidated by other people, his/herself, or a combination. This can mean making feelings seem insignificant or unjustified, it can mean belittling accomplishments, or it can mean ignoring/denying an individual's needs. As someone who has always been very independent, much of my invalidation has come from myself (although there has definitely been external invalidation, too). Telling myself that crying is weak or that feeling things gets in the way of who I want to become actually led to a bigger problem. There's nothing wrong with wanting to be independent, but being independent doesn't mean turning off emotions. I have also had a lot of invalidating relationships and events in my life that have added to this overall idea of invalidation.

Other components of BPD include relationship issues, self-image problems, and can include behavior control issues. These issues also play a huge role in how I live my life. I worry about what others think of me and judge myself very harshly. I only see my flaws and don't recognize any of the positives. I question why people maintain relationships with me and in return I question why I am in them. I often get overwhelmed by people in my life and push them away, only to realize my dependency for them once it's too late. There are many instances of the "I hate you, I love you" with the same relationship in the same day or hour! Whenever I lash out and push back, I always feel shame and guilt for it. I hate it when I do it, but I haven't yet developed the skills to stop it.

BPD might sound a lot like other mental illnesses like Bipolar Disorder. One key difference between Bipolar and Borderline is that Bipolar is a period of time feeling an emotion (depressed for 2 weeks, manic for 2, depressed for 3, manic for 4, etc.), whereas Borderline can go through lots of different, intense emotions within the same day. Bipolar is also more based on chemical imbalances whereas borderline is developed through a lot of environmental factors.

***
Growing up, I always described as "dramatic". I overreacted to things that were small or insignificant, but then I went numb whenever I had to deal with anything real. When my friend Allison brought up this disorder to me last November, I thought she was crazy. As I began to read the symptoms, I started sobbing because for the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt understood. Someone, somewhere, understood exactly how I felt.

It has been the best decision for me to get treated for Borderline. Even though it is so much work, time, and money, it is worth the feeling of finally getting answers. I finally understand why I do things or why I think things. I understand my basic needs so much clearer than ever before. I didn't think my depression could be anything but depression. It didn't make sense that there could be something bigger at play. There is so much hope in finally treating the right disorder and I am grateful for the switch (even if it does involve a much more demanding and difficult treatment!).

http://www.borderlinepersonalitydisorder.com

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/borderline-personality-disorder/index.shtml

https://www.nami.org/Learn-More/Mental-Health-Conditions/Borderline-Personality-Disorder

A "Stay-In-Bed-All-Day" Day

It had been a bad day, a dark day, a sad day, a dreary day. It had been a "stay-in-bed-all-day" day. I hadn't left my room all weekend and I hadn't showered since Friday morning; it was Sunday. My roommate came in and sat on my bed, knowing not to get too close or be too far away. She asked me how I was and what was wrong. She asked me if I was ready to talk about whatever was going on inside my head. I shook my head and sat there.

She nodded and gently put her hand on my leg. For a second I couldn't breathe because my body didn't know how to react. First it was struck with fear and then calm. All the tiny little shreds of pieces felt frozen where they were, no longer floating away. You see, on most days, I feel like my body is made up of paper torn to shreds. It feels as if it is being pulled in every direction and I am trying desperately to hold it all together. But for just a second, the pulling forces stopped.

Calm sets in when the pulling forces stop. However, then the emotions start to penetrate deeper and I am no longer completely numb. The feelings start to trickle in, slowly first and then all at once. As her stroking continued, my heart pounded and I could feel the emotional chaos starting to boil over. This boiling over had been more and more frequent lately. The tears started to form and I started to lose my control. To be completely honest, I had no clue as to why the emotional confusion had settled in. I just started to break.

We talked about how I didn't think I could do it anymore. We talked about how I wasn't anything like who I wanted to be and how I had no hope of getting better. I told her of the dark and scary thoughts that had taken residence inside my mind. These thoughts that told me I was worthless, used up, invisible. I told her how I hurt myself to relieve the numbness and how I had scary thoughts of doing worse. I told her my fear that it was time for me to return to the crazy house.

We sat in my room for a bit until she had to go. She left my room and I felt nothing again. I quickly texted my friend and told her I wasn't doing well. 3 minutes later she called me and we talked it through. I felt heard and validated and no talk of the psych ward was brought up, so I was feeling pretty good. She even made me laugh a bit, which was a great change of pace.

Finally, as I was getting ready to fall asleep, Allison called. As I picked up the phone, I could feel the emotions boiling up again. She said, "Rachel, I don't want you to be afraid. I don't want you to be scared, but I need you to listen. I see a few options here for you. You can go and check into a psych ward and hope you get the help you need, you can work really hard in therapy and do everything you are told to do so you can get better. You have to commit to it and really try hard. Or, and I don't advocate for this, you can take your life. I hope you don't choose this option, but it is an option. And if you choose it, I will have to make peace with it. You know what that does to people. Carrie Ostler will always think of Drew on her birthday and so will you. And if you take your life, it will affect all of us. Your students, your family, your friends, your roommates-- even people you don't know. It changes people. But I can't stop you, so we will have to deal with the pieces..."

I cut her off there, but I'm sure she had a long speech ready for me. I quickly told her the third option wasn't an option for me and that the timing wasn't right for option number one. So, I was going to dive into option 2. We talked for a few minutes and then she brought up something new. She said she had been talking with someone about me and they said it sounded like Borderline Personality Disorder. The treatment is completely different from normal therapy. It involved intensive and continuous therapy. I wasn't sure if I believed it, but the symptoms sounded a lot like me. As she talked, I quickly googled. I read and read and felt like she was telling the truth. I started to cry, not because I was sad, but because for once there were words to the emotions I had felt for so long.

There have always been these symptoms that didn't really add up. For years now, I've been telling people how crazy I am, but everyone always thought I was being self-deprecating. To a degree, that's true. I didn't really think I was this crazy. But every time I ever mentioned that I felt crazy or out of control, people always told me that it was "normal". They always said that everyone felt that way at some time or another. All they really did was make me feel crazier for feeling crazy (a vicious cycle, I know).

Eventually, Allison and I hung up. We ended our conversation by agreeing I would bring this up at my next therapy appointment on Tuesday. I agreed to go right to sleep after hanging up (ha!). She encouraged me and propped me up enough to make it through the next few days.

I sat on my bed and cried. As I sat there, my emotions were uncontrollable. I couldn't sit still or be in my room one more second. I stood up and walked out to my living room to where my two roommates were watching a movie, visibly shaking. I apologized for interrupting and asked to talk with them. They immediately pushed pause as I paced around our front room. My hands shook and I choked on my sobs, but I couldn't control it. I tried to channel the extra anxiety by tapping my fingers repeatedly. All the while, my roommates stared at me as I broke down completely.

Finally, amidst the sobs, I confessed Allison's theory... a theory I was slowly starting to believe myself. The more I talked, the more I believed it was true. They didn't say too much other than nod and reassure me. Eventually I sat down on the arm of the couch in an attempt to re-shackle my emotional distress. My roommate continued to stroke my leg to calm my shaking self. My left leg was shaking uncontrollably and she held it down at my knee.

The looks on their faces were full of concern and pity as they realized the magnitude of what I was saying. They recognized that if this was true, my issues were much deeper rooted and it was going to be a long road. Even though everything was crashing down around me, another part of me finally started to feel rooted. Validating this crazy mess that had become my life seemed to cause the beast to be tamed, even momentarily. I would later learn that validating the irrational allows reason to permeate our minds.

For once, I felt relief. The normal ways of coping with typical mental illnesses (depression, anxiety, bipolar, etc.) weren't working. I felt defeated whenever I slipped back into these dark holes. If this theory was right (which it was in case you didn't figure that one out), then there was a reason. Instead of feeling like a failure for getting myself back into the dark and twisties, I had hope. It wasn't a lot, but just enough to get me out of bed every day. It gave me the strength to keep going, keep trying. That hope is what I hold onto every day when it hurts to breathe, hurts to move, hurts to think. I remind myself of the rock bottoms. I remind myself that I am more than this moment of hurt and darkness. It's not a lot, but it's enough.

***
I was officially diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder that very week. I've been in therapy and getting treated for it for the past 3 months. Already I feel that I understand myself more in 3 months than I had in the previous 23 years.

How J.K. Rowling and Harry Potter Gave Me Strength

Four years ago I was scrolling through inspiration quotes on my Pinterest feed. Most of them related to Harry Potter because I am a complete Potter nerd (and proud!). I came across an interview with J.K. Rowling about her inspiration for dementors. She proudly declared their origins were with her personal battle with depression. At a time when I was desperately trying to wrap my brain around my recent depression diagnosis, I was speechless. Everything I knew about depression had changed. Someone who I had looked up to my entire life not only battled it herself, but invented a creature based on the vile illness.

I thought about the successes that JK had had throughout her life in spite of her illness. For the first time, I realized that I could be something more than my illness. For the first time, I realized that maybe there was a purpose for me, that maybe there was something I could do or become. It gave me hope in a time where all I could see was darkness.

As I battled my mental illness, I took great comfort in Harry Potter. I read the books over and over to distract my brain from the dark twisted thoughts that had taken residence inside. Quotes by Albus Dumbledore like "Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if only one remembers to turn on the light" continually roamed about my head. There was strength in knowing I was not alone and that I could escape through a magical world.

Three years ago, I found myself scrolling through Pinterest again. My world was once again upside-down and I was worse than ever before. I had to make the hardest decision of my life. I voluntarily admitted myself into a psychiatric facility because I couldn't function safely in the outside world. As I was crying and debating this decision, I came across a quote by JK herself: "Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I built my life". As I thought about this quote and my imminent destination, I realized this was not an end, but a beginning. The next day, I boarded a plane to check myself in, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in hand. I read that book 3 times during my 5-day stay.

After being released, that quote became a personal mantra. Whenever I doubted myself or wondered if I could do it, the quote gave me peace of mind. When I felt like giving up or giving in, I thought about the magical world millions of people would be missing out on if Rowling had given up, too. There were so many moments where I didn't feel like I could do anything more. I can vividly remember a time where going to the grocery store seemed like a herculean task. That mantra gave me strength to get out of bed on days when all I wanted to do was disappear.

Since then I have graduated from college, I have accepted and started a wonderful job, and life continues to be difficult. This year I returned to therapy to help manage stubborn symptoms. To my surprise, my diagnosis changed from that of depression to Borderline Personality Disorder. Immediately, I felt crazier than ever. I had accepted depression, embraced it even. I had overcome so much and now my crazy was infinitely crazier.

It has only been a few weeks since I was diagnosed and I have started to feel calmer about the situation. However, I have only been more and more inspired by the magical world. Last week, I finally had a chance to see Fantastic Beasts. With my job and getting ready for Thanksgiving, I hadn't had time until now. I sat in my seat, riveted by the creatures and characters. I wasn't even mad at all that there was no mention of Harry Potter. I was entranced.

As I learned about the creature, Obscurus, my heart began to break and tears welled up. This was what I was waiting for. I know, I know. The Obscurus is supposed to represent what our culture does when we force gay people to stay in the closet. Awesome. I get it, I support it, I'm a fan of it. Way to go, J.K.! But for me, it was something else. For me, it was the representation of BPD that I had been longing for. I felt like I could finally understand it because I could see it. BPD can have many different causes, but a huge one is that of abuse. The denial of emotional support and love can lead to warped sense of trust and emotional stability. The instability leads to outbursts of anger and lashing out at loved ones. BPD also manifests as a dissociation of oneself. Poor Credence suffered from unending abuse that caused him to repress his magic. This repression built into a creature with immense strength and power. Eventually, Credence would lose control and he would dissociate from his human self. During the dissociation, his Obscurus would lash out and cause destruction.

The obscurials struck a chord with me. It rang true and I felt understood. I felt okay. I felt empathy towards Credence as I watched him struggle to accept himself. I felt myself feel whole for a short time as I finally felt acceptance for who I am. I finally started to feel okay with who I could become.

J.K. Rowling has played a part in helping me accept myself and make sense of the insensible. She has inspired me and continues to inspire me as I grow to understand myself. Her strength and beautiful depiction of life's realities and heartaches make it easier for me to keep going.

Why I Won't Stop Talking About My Mental Illness

I talk about it a lot. Not as much as I think about it, but definitely more than anything else. Not a day goes by where I don't think about it, where I don't have to deal with it. Every morning I fight the thoughts in my head telling me not to bother waking up today. I have to fight off the instinct to jump ship when things get too hard. I have to talk myself into talking to people. Each day, I have to tell myself that people are worth it. I have to take a deep breath and focus on everything going on around me so that I don't get lost in my head. When my friends ask to go out, I have to fight the urge to run away. I talk about my illness because my life revolves around me fighting it off.

I hear the words coming out of my mouth, but I can't stop them. Considering the fact that 90% of my thoughts are about my illness or telling myself off for listening to the self-deprecating thought patterns bouncing around inside my brain, it's pretty good that I can hold a conversation about anything else. My depression has taken hold of my life and isn't letting go anytime soon. My life was turned upside down so violently and suddenly that I can't even remember who I was before it all.

Trust me, I wish I could have even a short respite. I'm tired of it, too. I wish that there was something I could talk about besides everything. The problem is that I have to keep talking about it. If I don't keep talking about my past, it won't stay in my past. It will come back. If I ignore it and pretend that nothing happened, I would be putting something so huge into a tiny box. There is no box spacious enough to confine the complexity of where my depression has taken me. If I try to move forward, the darkness will begin to creep back in. Slowly at first and then all at once. It will take control of me again and I will have to dig myself out all over again.

I watch my friends' faces when it comes back up. They force a smile and sit there listening. They know how to play the part, but it's getting old. I once had a friend ask me why I still talk about it. I just looked at her dumb-founded. It feels like it was forever ago, but it was only two years ago since I tried to kill myself. It's not like it was decades ago. Two years ago I didn't want anything to do with this life and I'm supposed to just get over it. It's not something that just heals right away. But to everyone else, two years feels like a pretty long time. It feels like I should be moved on. Most people just don't really care about it anymore.

Most people don't just check into a psych ward once. It's like rehab. A person who has checked in once is more likely to check in again. Checking in created this huge dichotomy in my life-- while I was in the hospital I wanted nothing more to get out, but the second I left, I would have done anything to go back inside. You're safe inside the psych ward and although it's hard, you don't have to put in quite as much hard work as you do afterwards. I thought the hardest part would be the actual hospitalization. In reality, it's been the readjustment and learning how to cope that has been the hardest. If I hadn't spent the last two years talking through the crazy thoughts, I would have been one of those psych ward returners. If people hadn't continued to pick up the phone (cough cough, Allison) or listen to my ramblings, I wouldn't have made the progress I've made. I wouldn't be where I am today.

My life didn't turn out the way I'd planned. I certainly didn't expect mental illness to play such a leading role. But I can't go back and change it, nor would I want to. It's what has made me me.  I won't apologize for talking about the bravest, most life-altering experience of my existence. I won't apologize for the thing that has shaped me into me. I'm proud of how far I've come and who I've started to become. There's still so much more growing in store for me, but I'm proud of where this part of my story has brought me.

I Graduated

Just over two years ago, I sat at a long table in the psych ward dining hall. For group that day, we discussed goals and how they help us have a purpose in our lives. We talked about setting measurable and attainable goals. We also talked about the importance of goals in our recoveries. After discussing goals to death, we were asked to write down just one goal for our post-psych ward lives. Everyone around me quickly scribbled down something as I sat at the dirty table with nothing on my paper and no ideas in my head. As my fellow psych wardians finished their goals, they trickled out of the dining hall for free time. Soon, I was the only one left with a blank sheet. With my empty page in hand, I tried to sneak out of the lunchroom. It didn't work. After what seemed like forever (but was probably about 10 minutes), I remembered my motto: We do hard things. At the top of the paper, I wrote down my goal: I want to do hard things.

Proud of myself, I walked up to my social worker expecting praise and admission into free time. I was unfortunately denied free time because my goal was "too vague" or some other sort of BS. I sat back down more frustrated than I have ever been. Looking at the nearly-blank page was discouraging. It felt like one of my tedious homework assignments for Allison that are daunting as Hell. Close to tears, I tried to think of something more specific; I was at a loss. After another eternity, I found myself pulling at my hair. I thought about what I would be doing in this exact moment if I didn't have my long hair to fidget with. That would be hard for me. So I wrote it down: chop off hair.

What else was hard? running. Okay, I'll run a 5k. But that would be too easy. I was aiming to write down unrealistic and extremely difficult things. If I was going to do this, my sass was going to shine through like never before. "I want to run a marathon". Bam, another goal.

Finally, I tried to think of something really hard. Instantly I thought of going back to school. Just thinking about it made me nauseous. There was no way I was ever going back to Provo, let alone classes on campus. I couldn't face the prospect of failing again. So, my last item on the list just said: school. I scratched that out and rephrased to to be more specific: graduate from college. There, that's a goal. It'll never happen, but it's a goal. I kind of smirked to myself as I walked up to get it approved. For some reason, my doctors didn't think my list was funny; instead, they thought it was something good for me to work towards or whatever.

***

It would be a little while before I started to see the benefit in making goals. When I was getting ready to get out of the loony bin, I realized I didn't know what I was doing or have any sort of plan. I relied on that list of goals to give me somewhere to aim for. I told my parents that very night that I was going to go back to school. I re-enrolled in some classes and kicked butt to catch myself up. Honestly, that was one of the hardest transitions I've ever been through. I'm so grateful now, but it was long and tedious at the time.

Two months after getting out, I went out with a friend from high school and we talked all about my crazy. We talked about a bunch of things, and somehow started talking about donating our hair. That night we decided we were going to donate our hair. A week later, I chopped off my hair and donated 12 inches of it. That chop was pretty symbolic of my fresh start. Allison always told me that my psych ward check-in would be like a reset button. When I chopped off my hair, I had a physical representation of that reset. During these past two years my hair has been growing, slowly. There were months where I thought "Why did I do that? I want it back." But it has given me an opportunity to practice patience. I looked in the mirror the other day and I didn't recognize myself. I was so excited because it feels like my hair has grown back almost overnight. I looked in the mirror and realized that as much as my hair had grown over the past two years, so had I. My hair is a physical representation of the reset, but also of the change and growth I've had since then.

***

Today I'm writing for another reason. I didn't chop my hair off and I definitely haven't run a marathon yet. But I still did something huge: I graduated from college. It's a big day in anyone's life, let alone mine. When I made my "unrealistic" goals two years ago, I couldn't imagine myself in those long blue robes. I couldn't picture myself walking across the stage to collect my empty, plastic diploma cover. Two years later, I graduated from college and accepted a job for next year. Despite my psychotic break-down two years ago and dropping half of my classes, I did it. I graduated with my best friends in the whole world and am moving on. I overcame every disadvantage and trial thrown my way. Not necessarily tactfully (because what fun is that?), but I did it. I have finally put these four years behind me. I no longer have to live in the shadows and memories of the darkest times of my life. I can move forward and be who I have been working towards becoming.

Although it is sad to leave behind this part of my life and the people I've met here, I am excited to start fresh. Here's to my second fresh start (although I don't need the physical reminder this time, thank you). Here's to starting a new life. Here's to a new me. Here's to accomplishing something hard. Here's to everyone who helped me get through these four years of Hell. I owe you big-time.

Panic

The second plane finally landed in Orange County and as I walked off, I suddenly felt lost. Although it wasn't the first time I'd flown by myself, I stood in the middle of the terminal and looked all around me, unsure of what to do. Hurried people rushed past me and I remained glued to the ground. It felt like the airport was closing in on me and I struggled to catch my breath. This was one of many panic attacks I had to deal with just in that week alone. A woman came up and tapped me on the shoulder as I struggled to fill my lungs. "Miss, are you lost? I know this airport really well. What are you looking for?" I turned towards her and suddenly felt nauseated. Bathroom. I somehow managed to say while gasping for air. She led me to the restroom where I ran and threw up in the stall. Feeling a little better, I cleaned myself up and put in a piece of gum. The kind woman had waited with me and led me in the direction of baggage claim. As we were walking, I kept thinking what if Allison isn't here yet. What if I flew all this way and I need to wait for her. I really just need to see her right now.

After saying goodbye to the woman, I stepped onto the escalator that led to baggage claim. Once I knew I wasn't going to trip on the moving stairs, I looked up. Waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs was Allison; arms crossed, tears in her eyes, and a smile across her face. At that moment, time stood still. All I wanted to do was run down the stairs. Unfortunately, there were people two steps below me and I resisted the urge to plow through them. What seemed like the longest escalator of my life finally ended and I ran towards Allison. I threw my stuff on the ground and we hugged for a good couple of minutes. "You did it. Rachel, I'm so proud of you. You did it!" For the first time since I said goodbye to Janale that morning, I felt like I could actually breathe. Allison wrapped her arm around me and walked me to my carousel as I (once again) sobbed. I tried to calm myself down as we walked, but every time I remembered what was happening, a new round of sobbing began. We stood there staring at the empty carousel when Allison turned and said "Okay, Rachel. It's not all over. You've done great so far, but we've still got a ways to go. You know that, right?" I nodded and tried to soothe my jagged sobbing. "Good. We'll be there in about 45 minutes." The look on my face must have expressed the trapped feeling that overcame my insides because Allison quickly tried to calm me down. "Rach, it's okay. We're getting your bags and we've still got a 45 minute drive. Don't worry, I'm not going to just leave you. I'm going to come in with you and it will be good." I shook my head and started muttering under my breath. Allison reached over to wrap her arm around me, but I yanked myself free. I ran away from her and turned my back so I could full-on cry. An ugly, body-convulsing, snot-choking, face-blotching cry. Before I could finish, she was right beside me with her arm around my shoulders. "Rachel, it's okay to cry. In fact, it's good. You've been holding it all in for a long time now. But, you don't need to be alone anymore. I'm going to be here. It's okay to need someone." I was still pissed. Somehow, I had gotten this idea in my head that we were going to go to her house for the night and get up the next morning to check in. This was not what I had signed up for. My bags finally came and as I reached for them, Allison tried to help me. Shoving her away from my bags, I rudely and willfully told her to stop and that "I had it". For some reason, I really wanted to do this on my own.

After both my bags were off the carousel, Allison once again tried to help me. And, I once again refused to let her. I threw my duffel bag onto my rolling suitcase and shrugged my purse onto my shoulder. With my free hand, I gripped my quilt and we walked towards the parking garage. Despite my stubborn refusal of help, Allison continued to wrap her arm around my shoulder in case I needed her. I would be curious what thoughts were running through her mind right then. It may have been amusing to watch me be so silly and stubborn. Or, she may have been frustrated to see that despite the months of her desperate attempts to help me, I continued to push her away.

Getting to her car, she tried for a third time to help me. I may or may not have shoved her hand away while she reached for my suitcases. "Allison, I've got this. Seriously." While I lifted my first suitcase, Allison put my second one in (she's stubborn, too!), despite my determination to stop her. She shut the trunk and we walked to our respective sides: she on the driver's side and I on the passenger's. I got to the door and froze. One hand held the handle and the other clutched my quilt. Allison had already slid into her seat and buckled her seatbelt. She looked over her shoulder and saw me standing there and quickly got out of the car. As I looked back and saw her getting out, I doubled over and cried. My face squished into my quilt and and Allison gently rubbed her hand on my back. "Rachel, my friend. It's okay. This is not the end. You've made it so far. You can cry and take the time you need, but it's going to be fine. When you're finished we can talk this through." Many moments later, I sat my head up and choked back the tears. "Rachel. Here's what we're doing. We're going to drive to the hospital. I'm going to be honest, I'm not 100% sure this is where you need to be. But if it is, we will meet with the people and talk it through and then you will check in. I live so close and I will visit you, call you, whatever you need. I'm here for you. You know you need to do this, otherwise you wouldn't have come all this way." The whole time she was talking I was muttering "no no no no no no no. I can't do this." over and over again. She turned to me and said "Okay, are we done crying? Catch your breath and get in the car. You can do it."

With the sassy angst of a teenager (even though I was technically no longer a teen), I slid into the car and continued to slowly cry. I desperately wanted to stop crying because I wanted to be brave. I wanted Allison to see me being brave. However, as soon as I managed to get the tears to subside, a new wave would overcome me and my fear would get the better of me. I thought I was being a baby, but I think when you're about to embark on the hardest thing of your life so far, you're allowed to cry. You're allowed to admit "Okay, this is hard. I am scared. AND I'm doing it anyway."