Who are you? What will you do? How should you present yourself?
It seems as though these questions played on repeat since I can remember, consuming my thoughts into the darkest parts of the night, taunting me as if they knew, I would never come up with an answer that felt right. I was seven, maybe then I should’ve known my brain worked just a little bit differently.
I’ve always been acutely aware of how my story separates me from others. Not many people can say they were adopted from a developing Latin American country and whose family of origin is made up of adopted children, but I can. Growing up, I yearned to be like my friends, someone who looked like their peers in complexion and stature. When that didn’t work, I figured if I could just act like them, take the pieces that made them “normal” and make them my own, then I’d fit in. Then, I’d feel at home in my body.
But my mind and body were already at war, and I was just along for the ride. It’s one thing to feel trapped in your own head, it’s quite another when circumstances beyond your control remind you how vulnerable to tragedy you are. What-ifs played out in montages behind my eyelids, turning restless days into sleepless nights. Darkness held my secret until it became too big to contain and I found myself in a room with a doctor, finally giving my puzzle pieces names.
The funny thing about diagnoses is that they can create more questions than answers. Back then, I was given three to explain my emotional turmoil. While hearing the words depression, anxiety, and anorexia brought a sense of relief, it reminded me once again that I was not like everyone else. In fact, they only hid the deep-seated fact that I had grown accustomed to thinking so much about death I forgot how to live my life — too much water under the proverbial bridge — and quite frankly, I wasn’t ready to admit the truth to myself.
While I may have moved on from my childhood home, the baggage I carried came with me to my college dorm. Except now, I was on my own in a new place and at the time telehealth options were limited. I spent the next three years drowning my growing awareness of mental health struggles, finding myself once again needing more professional help. Yet this time would be different because I now was ready to admit a few key pieces of my story: yes I’m a survivor of childhood trauma (leading to my PTSD and Borderline Personality diagnosis), yes I’m a survivor of religious trauma, and yes, I am queer.
Perhaps I knew these things all along but was too scared to face the implications of my thoughts, especially with an already fractured image of myself. I mean, how does someone rebuild after admitting such heavy truths? The scary reality is, there isn’t a road map, and after spending years running, I didn’t know where to begin. I knew the masks that I made from others no longer fit, but who was I underneath that shield, and moreover, how could I become the best version of her?
My therapist explained that we all have different parts that make us who we are. Some parts we are proud of, while others we tend to ignore. The real magic happens when we accept all our parts, allow them to heal, and find ways to support them moving forward. While that seems really daunting, all the power you need is within yourself, because you are the one you’ve been waiting for.
I’m not saying that I have this whole identity puzzle figured out or that I don’t still have the questions of “Who are you? What will you do? How should you present yourself?” floating around in my head. But what I do know so far is that above all else, I am the keeper of my peace and happiness. Living in the shadows by conforming to the desires and opinions of others does not reflect who I truly am. Neither do the slew of diagnostic codes in my medical history. As someone on the continuous journey of discovery, I encourage you to let your story unfold and embrace the richness of your true self. I assure you that it’s worth it.
