"Why don't you start buying your own damn food?"

In 2012, my daughter's father and I broke up after he cheated on me. This man had been my whole world, and when we broke up, I was not in a good place. I was barely eating, and was lucky if I was able to keep down a small snack. I lost 25 pounds in a month and was crying all the time. 

I was living with my family, in a house with two hungry teenage boys. My dad came home from work one day, looked at me, and said, "I'm sick of you eating all the fucking food. Why don't you start buying your own damn food?" 

That one sentence, revealing that he didn't care enough to notice that I was clearly not the one eating all the food (or any food), and that I was currently very broken, destroyed our relationship. 

It took me four years after that to finally manage to let go of the toxic man I call my father. I may have cut him off, but his words have still stuck with me. They will always be a reminder that family is not always there. 

"Johnsons don't cry."

I grew up without much physical affection, so I was unusually attached to my first boyfriend. When I was 16 and we broke up, I couldn't accept the fact that this breakup would be our last of many. To me, the daily sex, hugs, and kisses were an addiction. I needed them to feel loved.

When I finally processed that this was final, I was sobbing in my room. My father - drunk, as was typical of him - might have thought he was comforting me when he saw me and said, "Forget him! Johnsons* don't cry."

After that moment, I was ashamed to cry. I was ashamed to show any emotion other than hostility. 

I'm 21 now. And I'm still not able to let myself cry. I fight the tears until I have mental breakdowns. My sadness now automatically converts to rage.

I have some joy and love, thanks to my fiancé, but I fear I'll never be normal again. I'll never be able to cry openly and easily.

Because Johnsons don't cry.

*Names have been changed. 
 

"Just a phase."

Sophomore year of high school, I was well into my depression and struggling to find a reason to keep going. The first person I confided in was my dad, and he assured me that he'd help me find a therapist. 

Fast forward to a few months later, and my mom and stepdad were the ones who were helping me to find the help I so desperately needed. 

My dad finally attended a session with me, and afterwards he admitted to me in the car that he thought that my depression was "just a phase," and that he had never actually looked for help for me. 

It's been nearly 6 years, and I still don't think he takes me seriously.
 

"You're strong, and you should never forget that."

My art teacher was the one teacher who helped me with my mental illness. He never pointed out when I lost or gained weight, or when it was obvious that I was hiding the new wounds on my arms and legs.  He made sure I ate lunch in his classroom every day because he knew I had an eating disorder. Most days I just ate an apple, but seeing someone put forth so much effort into my well-being helped me more than he will ever know.

I came back to visit him after I graduated, and he told me, "When you first started coming to class your freshman year, I thought we were going to lose you before you graduated."

Then he smiled and said, "But you made it. And you did it on your own. You're strong, and you should never forget that. I'm proud of you."
 

"No one would care if you died."

I remember so clearly the day my brother went with me to the bus stop, five years ago. He had been upset that morning, and he took it out on me. We got into a fist fight, and when I finally hit back, he lost it. 

He told me to put a plastic bag on my head and go play in the street. He said, "No one would care if you died. They'd be better off without you." 

The events of that one morning led to my years of depression and anxiety. And finally my suicide attempt. 

To this day, when I get sad, I remember what he said. That everyone is better off without me.
 

"It's either him, or being alone forever."

Growing up, my mom and I would argue about my weight all the time. She would tell me things like, "No one could ever love a fat ass like you," or, "You'll end up alone if you don't lose weight."

When I was a freshman, a senior guy who I met in band developed a crush on me. My mom was so excited, and I'm pretty sure that she was the one who fell in love with him. 

She was pretty insistent that I give him a chance, even though I wasn't very comfortable with the idea because he creeped me out. She said, "He's the only man that's ever going to be interested in you. It's either him, or being alone forever." I didn't want to be alone, so I settled. We started dating. I graduated three years later, and we got married that summer. 

We were married for three years, and my depression got worse every single day. He was unsupportive and expected me to do everything, even though I often worked longer hours than he did. He decided that smoking weed and passing out on the couch was more important than pulling his weight. I never enjoyed sex, and I faked orgasms for six years. 

I finally got up the courage to ask for a divorce. He did not take it very well. He blamed all of our issues on me. When I told my mom about the divorce, she went insane. She told me that I would die alone if I went through with it. 

Fast forward to now: I've started dating the most amazing man who appreciates everything I do for him, but never expects it. I'm actually happy for once in my life. I've been happy for nearly a year now. 

Now I'm proving my mother wrong, every single day.
 

"I'd throw a party the next day."

Last year a guy from school told me to hang myself. I asked him if he'd feel bad if I actually did it, and he said, "No. I'd throw a party the next day."

I told him that if I had been depressed that day and if I were a different person, it would have happened. He said, "It would have been worth it."

People need to be careful about what they say. 
 

"You're not depressed."

One night last year, after I had been self harming for months, I came out of the shower to find my mum staring at my arms and legs. 

She hit me and shouted, "You're not depressed. You're an attention seeking wee bitch." 

That hurt so much, because I really needed professional help at that point in my life. 

"You're going to be a failure."

One time my mom took my sister and me to the beach, and she dropped us off while she went to look for parking. Once she had found a parking spot, she texted me to meet her and lead her to the spot where we were sitting. Since it was a particularly crowded day, I had some trouble finding the spot where we'd set up. 

It wasn't long before she started exploding at me, calling me retarded for not being able to find where we were sitting. Even after I started crying, she continued to insult me. The worst thing she said was, "You'll never make it in college because you can't even do the simplest of tasks. You're going to be a failure." 

She never once apologized for how she treated me. 

Now that I'm a freshman in college, I suffer from depression and anxiety because of fear of failing or messing up anything I do. 

"Get a life!"

In the past I've struggled a lot with anxiety, depression, PTSD, and bipolar. Lately I've been struggling with agoraphobia, or the fear of going outside. I've been indoors 90% of the time for a number of years, and I'm trying to work through it now.

I stopped going to public school sophomore year. I can't handle the environment, with timed expectations and feeling like people have their eyes on me when I mess up, so I take classes at home through the school. Every so often I have to go to the high school to do paperwork or something. My anxiety gets to me pretty often, but I try my hardest to relax and keep my head up. Keeping happy is my way of getting back at all the misfortune in my life, even if it's difficult. 

One day as I was getting ready to go to the high school to do some errands, I decided for the first time in forever that I wanted to dress up a little. Feeling confident makes it easier for me to go outside. It makes me feel like if people look at me, they won't judge what they see. 

As I was getting ready to cross the street to go home, someone sped by in a car and screamed at me, "GET A LIFE!" 

I stood and stared at the street for a moment. I felt like a paper thin glass bottle getting dropped on the ground. I wanted to sit down and cry, but I wanted even more desperately to just go back home and be inside. Indoors, nobody would call me names or tell me what to do with my life. 

I wanted to stop that car and shriek into his ears, "Do you know what you've just done to me? Do you know what I am going through? It took every single ounce of my energy to get out of bed today, and you have the audacity to tell me to get a life. I'm trying. I'm TRYING to get a life and I'm TRYING to maintain it. You don't know what it's like to get up with the intentions of going outside, look at the front door for fifteen minutes, undo the deadbolt, and then start crying and go back to bed because people like you make me wish I had never been born. I hope you're happy with yourself. I worked up every last bit of courage I had to walk out the front door today and you shattered it. You took it and threw it in a trash compactor." 

The three words he screamed at me made me feel empty and alone. It kept me wondering what I did wrong. What did I do to deserve that scream? What did I do to make you hate me? Just exist? 

Since then I've been working on going outside more. It isn't as scary now as it was then. I went out all on my own today and applied for a number of jobs. It feels good to smile and look people in the eyes, shake their hands and introduce myself. Even if I don't get the job(s), I'm happy with myself because I tried. 

I have a life. I'm doing all I can with it. With what I've been through in my life, trying and succeeding even at little tasks is more than just "enough." 

I'm excelling in places I never thought I would, and that is what makes me happy.