I would like to consider myself a normal person. The word “normal” is rather subjective, but the neverending list of societal standards and social cues that a 20-something-year old is supposed to fit outlines its definition. This list ranges from having a post-grad plan to attending fraternity parties on the weekend. Honestly, I think that those social standards are pretty superficial in measuring the type of person someone may be.

I haven’t always felt “normal.” I didn’t attend many parties until my senior year of high school. I didn’t have a friend group of close girlfriends that had lasted since middle school. I was extremely emotional—and still am—but then the teenage girls labeled me as dramatic. I had no sense of identity—my then-boyfriend had stripped me to nothingness and I just wanted to be like every other girl. I was just a body. What I would label now as a shell of a human. However, I didn’t know that then. Thoughts of self-loathing, emptiness, isolation, and confusion speed-raced through my head every day. My head, like the cotton candy machines I loved as a child, spun so fast it became a blur too fast to follow. I thought that was normal. It wasn’t.

Again, we can see that the word “normal” is arbitrary. Does it mean socially normal? Does it mean that those dark and twisty thoughts were normal? I couldn’t answer these questions, and I’m not sure I can today. I now understand why my life was the way it was, but I can’t answer completely what standards I was supposed to fit, or missed.

I am neurodivergent. Not was. Am. The neurodiversity that my brain holds is a part of my identity. In this sense, I am not normal. I am not neurotypical. But I am no longer afraid to feel abnormal. I don’t find fear in that word, nor in the names of my diagnoses. When I was younger, I told myself I would never be depressed. What a joke that was. I had no idea that I already was experiencing a life of neurodiversity, and that it was slowly shaping my identity and my relationship with the world around me.

Senior year, I almost lost my best friend, Katy, due to my mental illness. I pushed her out, I isolated myself. I refused to believe that she could feel the same love and appreciation for me that I felt for her. I didn’t deem myself worthy of love. Two days later, I was lying on a scratchy sky-blue hospital blanket. I was supposed to be in class. I don’t remember what I missed that day, but I still remember the faces walking by the glass wall that separated me from both those like and unlike me. I felt like a wild animal; I felt like a feral cat that was being separated from anyone who I could dig my claws into.

The next month of my life was a blur. I’d love to describe it to you, but I can’t do it with enough accuracy that I would deem fair. Instead, I’m going to start with my first session of DBT therapy. Therapy, more than anything else, is the best action I have taken to better my mental health. At the hospital, the psychiatrist told me I was depressed with “typical teenage girlfriend issues.” Invalidating, right? I knew something was missing. I didn’t know what it was, but I realized that there had always been a missing puzzle piece to my identity that I wasn’t mature enough to solve. The words those in my life used to describe me—sensitive, delicate, dramatic, crazy—created a characterization of myself that I didn’t recognize nor agree with. Whatever demons I was fighting amounted to something greater than those simple adjectives. I knew in my heart that their words weren’t the truth, but my head refused to believe that. After a single session and a look into the DSM-5 book, I found that my missing piece was Borderline Personality Disorder. I thought I would be scared to receive a diagnosis that had a stigma throughout the daily and medical worlds, but it only brought great satisfaction that the puzzle of my body was now complete.

I used to think that I was sick. After all, these disorders are called illnesses. My problem with that label is a conversation of its own, one that would fill pages and pages with words and anecdotes of the experiences of those who suffer from the chemical imbalances and traumas their brain holds. I am now a junior in college. I transferred schools, changed my major, and created relationships that my younger self could never have dreamed of. 

My 21st birthday is in six months. At the age of 17, my future was black. There was no 21st birthday. It was empty space, one that was supposed to be filled with hopes and dreams of the future. There were no images of the many years to come; there were no visions of myself in my college graduation robes, my thoughts typed out for the world to see, the sweet flavors of my wedding cake, or holding my own child. I didn’t crave the future my peers wanted so desperately.

I want to tell you that it will be okay. That it is going to get better one day. Those things are true, but true healing lies in the depths of your emotional banks. It is not easy, by any means, to dive so deep. Sometimes your true emotions exist in a version of yourself that is unrecognizable to who you know. 

There are still slivers of darkness that sneak in the days, weeks, months and years that are lived in the newfound bliss and romanticization of life. That’s not to say that life isn’t beautiful—I have found more beauty in myself and the world than I knew was possible. Healing was like turning the saturation up on your picture of the sunset. It was beautiful to begin with, but now the grey and faded shadows that cover the deep pink and red streaks decorating the sky have disappeared to almost nothing.

The keyword here is almost. One day, you will accept your mental illness into your identity instead of letting it haunt you during your waking hours. One day you won’t need sleep to escape your reality, and you will remember that the clocks keep ticking and the sun keeps rising. The dreams of happiness and self-love will become what you see when you see your reflection in the mirror.

You might not have an example of someone who is far into their journey of healing. Let me be your example. I still experience days where I fall a little into the hole filled with feelings of the past, and episodes of Borderline and depression still occur. My anxiety and OCD still exist daily, but now I know how to handle them. Now it is a part of me, and I love that. It has made me the person I am today, a better person than I have ever been. I say thank you to my brain for allowing me to learn empathy and collecting experiences that I turn into advice for not just my loved ones but whoever chooses to reach out. I still need reassurance and advice sometimes, but now I can give it to others as well. I can respond to the near-strangers that fill my Instagram DM’s or pick up the FaceTime calls from old friends who need help from someone who has felt the dark and twisty feelings before. It feels incredibly validating and helps to remedy my see-saw-like feelings of self-worth.

The best advice that I can give you is to let yourself hit rock bottom. Let yourself spiral and feel the emotions that are so hard to feel. Once you hit the bottom, the only way you can go is up. Being deep down there or having any kind of mental illness is so stigmatized, but those who have experienced it—and there are many more of us than you think—are always here to support and comfort you. Don’t be afraid to reach out. Push out the shame of not always having days filled with sunshine and rainbows. Use this time to build an identity for yourself and learn about all of the intricate parts of yourself that you may have never seen.

As cliché as it is, the world is better with you in it. It’s okay to relapse, it’s okay if you fall into pits of self-harm impulses or suicidal thoughts. It’s okay to have intrusive thoughts. The most important part is to learn how to feel and not react to them, and it's okay if you do. Download sober apps to get support from the people who experience the same struggles that you do. I still feel those feelings sometimes, you are not alone in your pain. There is a collective identity among those who struggle, you just need to look for it and surround yourself with people who will listen and let you express everything that you need to get off your chest even if it takes hours.

I promise you’ve got this. If no one else, even yourself, believes in you…then I do. I always will, and there are thousands of people who have your back and will catch you if you fall down. Even if they don’t know your name.