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From rags to riches, a cliché healing story

One glass of wine in. I think I am ready.

It’s been some time. Hi everyone.

I am writing this fairly late and it feels despicably weird on my behalf that I sort of abandoned my blog for some time. I may or may not have excuses which should or should not be mentioned at the time being. However, let’s get started, shall we?

How have you been? I failed to connect with my readers since quarantine started and for that, I am truly sorry. My content has been perceived, for a good portion of time, an escape from the average. From the normal. And when this entire mad show began, I cowardly hid behind the curtains and called it a day. I hid and hid until I could no longer breathe.

I will pervertedly lay all the cards on the table.

One month ago, my depression hit again. And this time, in much more complexity and peculiarity than one year prior. I try my best to be vulnerable in front of all of you because vulnerability sells when you are the one buying, not making an offer. My decision to talk about what has happened to me in 2020 came as a rebuttal to everything I seemed to endure. Or, to put into better words, I made myself endure. 

One month ago, I developed an eating disorder – something I was previously unfamiliar with. Granted, I thought at that time that it was because I was undergoing another break up and this is how my mind coped with my body. By refusing to eat. I could see my bones. I could see life fading from my eyes. There was no energy left to spare inside of me, no motivation to get out of bed. My mother, my own mother, would try to spoon feed me soup – which for quite the time was the only thing I could bear to eat. God, it sounds so exponentially blown out of proportion that it sounds fictional. But this is my blog and I get to tell my story how I wish.  

Some morning, we booked an appointment for a psychiatrist. There was a consensus in my family that maybe medication was the ultimate need, at least for the time being, since there seemed to be an utter absence of me getting better any time soon. I must admit that when the appointment was made, there was a blow in my stomach which conversely made me cry my eyes out. The fact that I required an external factor to push me out of bed, to help me cope with reality, to hopefully shift my perspective on life was fascinatingly dooming. Thus, I had a new therapist, a physiatrist, my entire family, and all my friends trailing behind me trying to get me back on my feet. And let me tell you, my feet were wobbly as hell. Of course, the question still stands: why? Exactly what was the reason I hit rock bottom yet again and this time it all seemed too familiar for me to be shocked by the darkness of the same place I escaped one year ago. 

I weighed myself and I hit a new low: almost 47 kilograms. This may not look like a suspiciously low number, but I came home in March with around 53-54 kilograms. I lost almost 5 during the weeks my body began refusing food. My reflection in the mirror was horrifyingly pale, sort of like a ghost of my past self creeping up on my present one. They wanted to co-exist in peace, but the image was nothing else but sad. I do not hold a better word for it – it was just sad. 

After almost 2 months of treatment, therapy, and healing, my laptop is devilishly heating on my belly after a normal meal. Here is what happened. My awareness of deciding to talk about this is warranted by the fact that we all experience what I have just experienced in different shapes or forms. When presented with the reality (of what I thought at the time) was complete loneliness, this is how my mind dived into an exaggerated and apocalyptical manifestation of it. 

I underwent two breakups this year. 2020 began with my crawling on the bathroom floor crying after a man that broke every piece of kindness in me. After he confronted me with his cheating and manipulations, whatever I preached online disappeared from my mind and I accepted his excuses. I urge you to not make the same mistake I made, for several reasons. Granted, the art I made as a leftover after such events was unparalleled by my happy self, but it broke me in more ways I care to admit. For a good portion of time, I thought I would obey anything this man had to say or do similar to blindly following an unjustified deity. It seems rather funny to me now that his mere presence that is slowly trying to lurk back into my life is blankly indifferent. I healed those parts in me that were in desperate need of the male approval. Of the male perspective in my mind. And then, the second break up. Oh, man, that was triggering. Here is what my therapist taught me: to thank my past self for walking away even if at the time being, it was definitely not what I wished for. Thus, I thank myself for walking away even if everything inside of me screamed for an unhinged status quo of a man I could not be with. And speaking of this man – thank you, as well. It beats me if you are ever to read this, but you truly did change my life. Had you not put a stop to our joint toxicity, I would have never been able to take multiple steps back and seek help. And now, I am happier than ever. There is a silly part of me that still thinks about you from time to time and forgiveness has been (or not) a personality trait I wish to endure – but more than anything, I forgive myself for what I put both of us through. I truly hope you are well. 

And because you left – others were able to come. However, I came to learn it was not to fill in a gap. An emptiness. A place designed for someone to sustain me. My dying fear was to be alone. And I found myself alone, crying at the stars and the stars wondering what in the world was wrong with me this time. I didn’t have a definite answer, I just knew that loneliness was a crippling emotion and it was paralyzing to see others escaping it, while I was silently drowning in it. There were days when I would simply stare at the ceiling for hours, merely condescending thoughts after thoughts of how my past actions were anchoring me into a void. The happy days were when I would aimlessly drive around town trying to feel something. Anything. Park, cry, and then go back home in my cold, empty bed.

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My wish to start documenting my healing journey began by trying to find videos of me from last year when I was slowly becoming just a piece of flesh walking around campus. I couldn’t find any, so I started recording. My camera roll probably has now tens of videos of me breaking down crying trying to talk about my fears, the abuse I experienced, my deeply-rooted issues I have with men, how I cannot seem to forgive my past, younger self because of her stupid rebllion against who knows what, of trying to find reasons of why this and that happened to me, how did I put myself in that situation, why I didn’t scream, why I chose to stay silent, the bullying, you name it. It’s a sad view. Nonetheless, it was a necessary one.

Then, I started manifesting. Manifesting the best version of myself. Although trapped in my home town, there is an arching wish in my brain to materialize all of my dreams. Therapy made me face my biggest demon – that of being in my own cubicle of a room, far away from my friends and second home, and still manage to do the impossible. I stopped craving the presence and attention of others, especially the men I deemed to be so utterly indispensable, that I have finally realized that I am enough. One of my biggest accomplishments is finally coming to terms with my sexuality. Yes, I will the refuse normative tags, but one could consider myself a bisexual. However, in practice, I will fall in love with anyone my eyes will lay upon. And I am finally happy.

From all of those manifestations, came two appearances in Vogue Italy, our platform surpassed 500 users in less than a month, two new articles in Vice, tens of students messaging me daily for advice or simply kind words that I have changed their lives with my silly tiktoks (and over 4000 followers in two weeks just by talking about college!), acceptance to my dream job, admittance to the international committee in International Youth Neuroscience Association and plenty more. If it feels like bragging it’s because it definitely is. Yes, I am proud of myself. I did all of this in a month. And I purposely left out others for the effect. A new panel and our second newsletter for Slater are also coming up. And before I leave for the US in January, expect to hear even more from me. Because I am constantly healing. 

Moral of the story (ironically): your broken heart can achieve a thousand more than your ubiquitously boring one. 

Moral of the story (reality): seek help. Accept your mistakes. Forgive you past self and others. And never, in a million years, think you will not be able to love life again.


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