I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. Hit with waves of overwhelming heartbreak, guilt, and shame, I stepped back from the cliff. I feared how Death would treat my family if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue, and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. I continue to repair the bond in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. I prioritize my mental health not by setting up walls, but by drawing lines in the sand. Communicating and enforcing those lines keep my peace safe. Boundaries in my relationships are my way to put myself first. Now, I aspire to encourage others to do the same: recognize and acknowledge what you have been through. Set up boundaries with others to keep your mental health first. Patience, gratitude, and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. Hit with waves of overwhelming heartbreak, guilt, and shame, I stepped back from the cliff. I feared how Death would treat my family if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue, and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. I continue to repair the bond in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. I prioritize my mental health not by setting up walls, but by drawing lines in the sand. Communicating and enforcing those lines keep my peace safe. Boundaries in my relationships are my way to put myself first. Now, I aspire to encourage others to do the same: recognize and acknowledge what you have been through. Set up boundaries with others to keep your mental health first. To do this, I plan on pursuing a career in social work or counseling, with a focus on youth mental health from underprivileged backgrounds. I believe that child and adolescent mental health is not taken seriously enough and must be changed. The most vulnerable communities are those of color and from low-income backgrounds. I will achieve this goal of becoming a mental health support system by completing my undergraduate degree in Sociology at the University of California, Los Angeles and then a Master's degree in counseling at San Jose State University. Patience, gratitude, and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. Hit with waves of overwhelming heartbreak, guilt, and shame, I stepped back from the cliff. I feared how Death would treat my family if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue, and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. I continue to repair the bond in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. I prioritize my mental health not by setting up walls, but by drawing lines in the sand. Communicating and enforcing those lines keep my peace safe. Boundaries in my relationships are my way to put myself first. Now, I aspire to encourage others to do the same: recognize and acknowledge what you have been through. Set up boundaries with others to keep your mental health first. Patience, gratitude, and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. Hit with waves of overwhelming heartbreak, guilt, and shame, I stepped back from the cliff. I feared how Death would treat my family if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue, and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. I continue to repair the bond in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. I prioritize my mental health not by setting up walls, but by drawing lines in the sand. Communicating and enforcing those lines keep my peace safe. Boundaries in my relationships are my way to put myself first. Now, I aspire to encourage others to do the same: recognize and acknowledge what you have been through. Set up boundaries with others to keep your mental health first. Patience, gratitude, and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. Hit with waves of overwhelming heartbreak, guilt, and shame, I stepped back from the cliff. I feared how Death would treat my family if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue, and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. I continue to repair the bond in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. I prioritize my mental health not by setting up walls, but by drawing lines in the sand. Communicating and enforcing those lines keep my peace safe. Boundaries in my relationships are my way to put myself first. Now, I aspire to encourage others to do the same: recognize and acknowledge what you have been through. Set up boundaries with others to keep your mental health first. Patience, gratitude, and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. Hit with waves of overwhelming heartbreak, guilt, and shame, I stepped back from the cliff. I feared how Death would treat my family if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue, and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. I continue to repair the bond in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. I prioritize my mental health not by setting up walls, but by drawing lines in the sand. Communicating and enforcing those lines keep my peace safe. Boundaries in my relationships are my way to put myself first. Now, I aspire to encourage others to do the same: recognize and acknowledge what you have been through. Set up boundaries with others to keep your mental health first. Patience, gratitude, and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. Hit with waves of overwhelming heartbreak, guilt, and shame, I stepped back from the cliff. I feared how Death would treat my family if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. I hope to continue repairing the bond in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. Patience, gratitude and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. Hit with waves of overwhelming heartbreak, guilt, and shame, I stepped back from the cliff. I feared how Death would treat my family if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue, and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. I continue to repair the bond in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. I prioritize my mental health not by setting up walls, but by drawing lines in the sand. Communicating and enforcing those lines keep my peace safe. Boundaries in my relationships are my way to put myself first. Now, I aspire to encourage others to do the same: recognize and acknowledge what you have been through. Set up boundaries with others to keep your mental health first. Patience, gratitude, and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. It felt like my ribs were carrying an anchor, my lungs were carrying a suffocating, thick, black ooze that only allowed me enough air to mutter the words: "I'm fine." Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. But did I go over the cliff? No. Heartbreak. The only pain worse than the pain on myself was the pain knowing I caused pain to the ones I loved. Fear. I didn't fear death, I feared how death would treat those close to me if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. I was a bomb, ready to blow, but my emotions cut through the smoke. Guilt. Shame. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. Through art, I learned how to welcome and acknowledge hard work. I hope to continue repairing the bond with my academic achievement in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. Patience, gratitude and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I’m living for my own happiness rather than dreading existence. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. Forgiveness. I forgive myself for all the pain I've inflicted on myself and all the people who have hurt me. Love. I love the way I am and those who care about me. Understanding. I am patient with myself when I am struggling, and I understand when others are fighting their own battles. My scars and my depression are not something I am ashamed of. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. Hit with waves of overwhelming heartbreak, guilt, and shame, I stepped back from the cliff. I feared how Death would treat my family if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. I hope to continue repairing the bond in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. Patience, gratitude and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

“You’ll be attending the fifth period Social Justice class starting tomorrow,” my counselor told me. I reluctantly thanked her. I wondered if I would’ve been better off in forensics class. I didn’t like expressing my political views to people; it was a recipe for broken relationships and arguments over Thanksgiving dinner. Watching a social justice burnout prevention documentary, I had flashbacks to when I felt drained and stared into space as my brain repaired itself after overworking. Why was I only learning about burnout prevention in an elective class? Why was no one providing ways to handle stress? I froze, remembering the hurtful names people called me when they saw my scarred arms. Freak. Attention-seeker. Why was I being looked down upon? Didn’t they understand I needed help? I know firsthand about the importance of mental wellness. My sense of justice called out to me to help others. Improvement needs to be school-wide. Art is meditative. It calms my stress and helps me overcome my impulses to self-harm. Maybe other people could use this too. Several of my classmates and I founded the Art to Hearts club. We use art therapy to address issues regarding mental health. Our goal was to erase the negative stigma around mental illness and promote positive mental health practices. But the worldwide pandemic struck before we could cut the ribbon on our new club. With distance learning, the school needed Art to Hearts more than ever as devastation, sadness, and stress plagued our high school. Amid darkness, it's a lighthouse to guide others to a healthier lifestyle. Art to Hearts is evolving every day as we figure out new ways to meet the needs of our peers. Through Art to Hearts, I applied what I learned in social justice class to my community, but I want to do more. I want to go to school to learn more about sociology so I can help more people. I aspire to be a social worker for others. I believe that children are not given equal opportunities, especially in low-income communities. Being a social worker will allow me to be able to support children mentally and emotionally because oftentimes, students are emotionally neglected. Then these students spiral into negative cycles of poverty and struggle. I want to break the cycle of poverty. I believe that mental health is a topic that is often dismissed and overlooked but has a direct correlation to public institutions like school. As a social worker, I can help improve these public institutions or directly help people. By advancing my knowledge further in college, I hope to work closely with professors and researchers to find ways to effectively and efficiently improve public institutions so that they offer mental health services that are accessible to low income areas. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. Sometimes, people can’t be strong for themselves. I want to be strong for them.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. Heartbreak. The only pain worse than the pain on myself was the pain knowing I caused pain to the ones I loved. Fear. I didn't fear death, I feared how death would treat those close to me if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. I was a bomb, ready to blow, but my emotions cut through the smoke. Guilt. Shame. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. I hope to continue repairing the bond in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. Patience, gratitude and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. Forgiveness. I forgive myself for all the pain I've inflicted on myself and all the people who have hurt me. Love. I love the way I am and those who care about me. Understanding. I am patient with myself when I am struggling, and I understand when others are fighting their own battles. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. It felt like my ribs were carrying an anchor, my lungs were carrying a suffocating, thick, black ooze that only allowed me enough air to mutter the words: "I'm fine." Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. But did I go over the cliff? No. Heartbreak. The only pain worse than the pain on myself was the pain knowing I caused pain to the ones I loved. Fear. I didn't fear death, I feared how death would treat those close to me if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. I was a bomb, ready to blow, but my emotions cut through the smoke. Guilt. Shame. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. Through art, I learned how to welcome and acknowledge hard work. I hope to continue repairing the bond with my academic achievement in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. Patience, gratitude and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I’m living for my own happiness rather than dreading existence. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. Forgiveness. I forgive myself for all the pain I've inflicted on myself and all the people who have hurt me. Love. I love the way I am and those who care about me. Understanding. I am patient with myself when I am struggling, and I understand when others are fighting their own battles. My scars and my depression are not something I am ashamed of. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. It felt like my ribs were carrying an anchor, my lungs were carrying a suffocating, thick, black ooze that only allowed me enough air to mutter the words: "I'm fine." Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. But did I go over the cliff? No. Heartbreak. The only pain worse than the pain on myself was the pain knowing I caused pain to the ones I loved. Fear. I didn't fear death, I feared how death would treat those close to me if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. I was a bomb, ready to blow, but my emotions cut through the smoke. Guilt. Shame. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. Through art, I learned how to welcome and acknowledge hard work. I hope to continue repairing the bond with my academic achievement in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. Patience, gratitude and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I’m living for my own happiness rather than dreading existence. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. Forgiveness. I forgive myself for all the pain I've inflicted on myself and all the people who have hurt me. Love. I love the way I am and those who care about me. Understanding. I am patient with myself when I am struggling, and I understand when others are fighting their own battles. My scars and my depression are not something I am ashamed of. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

5,500 words. It’s 1,500 words over the word limit for my IB Diploma Program Extended Essay, but I shrug it off. It’s only a rough draft, better to write too much than too little, I reassure myself. It is my brain child, a blend of my sexual identity, my research, time, and effort that have gone into making the essay truly me. Because of the IB Diploma program, I'm well informed about pride history and have wondered at length why my coming out of the closet moment wasn’t as impactful as I expected. What does coming out even mean anymore? It used to be a big moment in someone's life that would change the lives of the people around them. Why does my coming out feel so insignificant? I want to silence my restless identity crisis. A history teacher, a social worker, and a social justice teacher have provided a compelling set of answers. I've bothered librarians with my interest in the Pansy Craze; I've watched documentaries about the Stonewall Inn. My heart breaks a little more each time I read about how someone was kicked out of their house for loving who they wanted. The sources available and the support I have propel me forward to explore the meaning of coming out. I just have to walk through. I am beginning to understand the evolution of coming out. A decade ago, people couldn’t openly love who they wanted to. Stepping out of the closet was a way to fight for LGBTQ+ equality that put your life on the line. As the expression of sexuality became acceptable over time and more people were openly homosexual, the significance of coming out gradually lost its meaning. The LGBTQ+ community is winning the fight. By having my own coming out story, I’m a part of that fight. It isn’t as grand as Ellen’s “Yup, I’m Gay” magazine cover. I am privileged to be able to come out so freely. Of course, I’m still discovering myself, but for now, I am confident in my identity and story. At last, I feel pride.

“You’ll be attending the fifth period Social Justice class starting tomorrow,” my counselor told me. I reluctantly thanked her. I wondered if I would’ve been better off in forensics class. I didn’t like expressing my political views to people; it was a recipe for broken relationships and arguments over Thanksgiving dinner. Watching a social justice burnout prevention documentary, I had flashbacks to when I felt drained and stared into space as my brain repaired itself after overworking. Why was I only learning about burnout prevention in an elective class? Why was no one providing ways to handle stress? I froze, remembering the hurtful names people called me when they saw my scarred arms. Freak. Attention-seeker. Why was I being looked down upon? Didn’t they understand I needed help? I know firsthand about the importance of mental wellness. My sense of justice called out to me to help others. Improvement needs to be school-wide. Art is meditative. It calms my stress and helps me overcome my impulses to self-harm. Maybe other people could use this too. Several of my classmates and I founded the Art to Hearts club. We use art therapy to address issues regarding mental health. Our goal was to erase the negative stigma around mental illness and promote positive mental health practices. But the worldwide pandemic struck before we could cut the ribbon on our new club. With distance learning, the school needed Art to Hearts more than ever as devastation, sadness, and stress plagued our high school. Amid darkness, it's a lighthouse to guide others to a healthier lifestyle. Art to Hearts is evolving every day as we figure out new ways to meet the needs of our peers. Through Art to Hearts, I applied what I learned in social justice class to my community, but I want to do more. I want to go to school to learn more about sociology so I can help more people. I aspire to be a social worker for others. I believe that children are not given equal opportunities, especially in low-income communities. Being a social worker will allow me to be able to support children mentally and emotionally because oftentimes, students are emotionally neglected. Then these students spiral into negative cycles of poverty and struggle. I want to break the cycle of poverty. I believe that mental health is a topic that is often dismissed and overlooked but has a direct correlation to public institutions like school. As a social worker, I can help improve these public institutions or directly help people. By advancing my knowledge further in college, I hope to work closely with professors and researchers to find ways to effectively and efficiently improve public institutions so that they offer mental health services that are accessible to low income areas. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. Sometimes, people can’t be strong for themselves. I want to be strong for them.

My Instagram username is @thecinnabunbun. The LGBTQ+ community is a very welcoming and accepting community and I am proud to be part of creating that welcoming and positive environment. My definition of love is different from others, but it just means I have more love to give and accept.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. Hit with waves of overwhelming heartbreak, guilt, and shame, I stepped back from the cliff. I feared how Death would treat my family if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. I hope to continue repairing the bond in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. Patience, gratitude and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. It felt like my ribs were carrying an anchor, my lungs were carrying a suffocating, thick, black ooze that only allowed me enough air to mutter the words: "I'm fine." Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. But did I go over the cliff? No. Heartbreak. The only pain worse than the pain on myself was the pain knowing I caused pain to the ones I loved. Fear. I didn't fear death, I feared how death would treat those close to me if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. I was a bomb, ready to blow, but my emotions cut through the smoke. Guilt. Shame. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. Through art, I learned how to welcome and acknowledge hard work. I hope to continue repairing the bond with my academic achievement in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. Patience, gratitude and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I’m living for my own happiness rather than dreading existence. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. Forgiveness. I forgive myself for all the pain I've inflicted on myself and all the people who have hurt me. Love. I love the way I am and those who care about me. Understanding. I am patient with myself when I am struggling, and I understand when others are fighting their own battles. My scars and my depression are not something I am ashamed of. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was so exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. It felt like my ribs were carrying an anchor, my lungs were carrying a suffocating, thick, black ooze that only allowed me enough air to mutter the words: "I'm fine." Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. But did I go over the cliff? No. Heartbreak. The only pain worse than the pain on myself was the pain knowing I caused pain to the ones I loved. Fear. I didn't fear death, I feared how death would treat those close to me if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. I was a bomb, ready to blow, but my emotions cut through the smoke. Guilt. Shame. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. Through art, I learned how to welcome and acknowledge hard work. I hope to continue repairing the bond with my academic achievement in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. Patience, gratitude and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I’m living for my own happiness rather than dreading existence. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. My scars and my depression are not something I am ashamed of. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.

I stood over the sink with red rain running from my arms, mentally in a gray cloud. I was exhausted from the life or death battles in my mind that I pushed my body on the same life or death cliff edge with a metal blade. Depression stroked my hair with its claws and whispered its deadly incantations in my ear. I don’t want to be here, or anywhere. No, I wasn’t thinking about a location, I was talking about existing. Depression broke up my relationship with my academic achievements. Class became another place where I showed up on autopilot. I wanted to keep my grades spotless but I dreaded the effort. I did the homework simply to get it done. My exhaustion and lack of motivation made it twice as difficult to focus and stay determined to be the best student I could be. Hit with waves of overwhelming heartbreak, guilt, and shame, I stepped back from the cliff. I feared how Death would treat my family if they found me unconscious with a letter in my hands. Then, without knowing it, I made a subconscious pact with myself to stop cutting and start... ...painting. The brush is the blade, and the paint is my cure. It is smooth, bright, and soothes my scarred skin. Seeing magenta, cobalt blue and canary yellow on my forearms relieves me more than seeing red rivers. I hope to continue repairing the bond in college and learn what I’m truly passionate about. I want to extend a helping hand to others. A degree in sociology is a path to help people who are struggling. Patience, gratitude and appreciation now grow atop my healing scars. My mindset blossoms with growth and positivity. I focus on the happier moments sprinkled throughout my days. The canvas is streaked with inspiration and bright colors. My rainbow palette compliments the dark shades to help me better understand everyone else’s shadows. I see myself in the mirror as a piece of art. My scars make me unique. They paint a story that words can barely tell.