Why I'm Not Okay

When I was 11, my father threw a steel toe boot at my head. By the time I recovered from the shock, I was barely able to get out the back door before he got ahold of me.

When I was 13, he picked me up off the ground by my neck and held me against the wall, my feet dangling inches from the ground. He proceeded to scream at me for something we both knew my sister did.

When I was 15 and finally put on a little weight, due to them taking me off a medication, my father told me I was getting fat and told me to watch my weight.

When I was 15, they told me I was depressed. They told me I had anxiety. They told me to talk to a stranger about things even I didn't understand.

At 15, I developed anorexia. I never fully beat it.

At 16, I tried desperately to find attention, hoping if somebody loved me, it would make my dad love me, too. Or if not, maybe somebody would see the cry for help.

When I was 17, my father was arrested for child pornography, leaving my mom to take care of myself and my two little sisters.

On my 18th birthday, I spent the day donating plasma to buy groceries for my sisters.

When I was 18, I was coerced and guilted into having sex for the first time.

When I was 18, I was raped by a man I trusted.

When I was 18, I was threatened and harrassed by a man I refused to have sex with.

When I was 18, I swallowed half a bottle of Vicodin. Turns out if you take pain meds on an empty stomach, you just puke them all back up.

When I was 19, I met a man I thought was my happily ever after. Turns out, he was just like my father.

When I was 19, I lost all my friends, run off by the man I claimed to love.

When I was 19, I wanted to die.

When I was 19, they told me I was sick. They told me there was no cure. They told me I would always be sick.

When I was 19, I was backed into a wall, his fist just inches from my face.

When I was 20-years-old, I wrote my goodbyes. I found a sharp knife, and a bottle of painkillers. I laid out a plan, and waited for the household to go to sleep.

When I was 20, I found a friend. He bought me a bus ticket; he got me out and away. He saved me from the man I thought I loved and from myself.

When I was 20, I moved 2000 miles from the only home I'd ever known, miles away from my family and friends.

When I was 21, I learned what it felt like to know true love.

Today, I am 23. I am alive.

Now, I share my story. I'm stronger now. I'm still sick. I'm still anxious. My eyes still follow the men I pass at work, on the street, at the store, watching to make sure they don't get too close. I still flinch away when men reach out to touch me. I still struggle with my weight. But I'm alive. And there is so much more out there for me.

My story could have ended in a period. It could have been over. But it wasn't. My story isn't over;