Born into a religious household, I always felt pressure to conform to expectations of what others wanted of me. I grew my hair long and stayed quiet when asked, for anything louder would mean I would anger my mother, who was already working so hard to care for us while my dad regularly deployed. Art was everywhere: at daycare, at school, all alone. It was my solace in a dark place. It allowed me time to talk to my family, where we wouldn’t argue and where they would be proud of me. It was my freedom to draw what was on my mind despite anything that happened. With art, I could unearth my authentic self, crafting characters and worlds that echoed my innermost desires and struggles. It was what I bonded with my grandparents with. I could spend hours with them, making crafts, chatting, and having fun. But outside of painting and drawing, I struggled to socialize. Undiagnosed, even to this day, I believe I may be autistic. All the signs are there, right? Hyperfocusing on art, being unable to vocalize my feelings, the overwhelming anxiety and exhaustion that comes with masking my family constantly? It’s a nightmare. With art, I’d find my recharge, where I could go if I were grounded, or where I’d go after a terrible argument with my mother. In the first story I wrote, I was taken away into this world, into the art. Eventually, I would find solace in storytelling as well. It consumed my every being, and I ultimately became dependent on it. I had issues making friends, my intelligence was average at best, and I never found many subjects interesting. In each class, I would doodle in the margins of my notebooks. But the fights with my mom got worse, so bad that in my senior year of high school, I would be grabbed by the neck and pushed to the ground, an argument that ended in me attempting to end my own life. Upon discovering I had done this, I was taken to school anyway without medical assistance. I was in udder shock that my mother wouldn’t love me enough to take me to the hospital to save my life if it meant that she could look better by giving me an energy drink to keep me awake. Going to the nurse’s office, I’d talk to her about the situation at home. I confided in the terrible argument, and I was sent to the hospital alone. While the paramedics kept me awake, we spoke about the art classes I enjoyed taking and how I wanted to be an artist one day. Ultimately, I owe it to myself that I kept myself alive and kept going even six years later. I owe it to the 17-year-old me who went through so much to keep doing her dreams, hoping he could look back at where he came from and be proud of who he’s become.