For the past nineteen years, I was told there was something wrong with me. I was selfish, lazy, satanic even — props to my mom for that last one. Never mind the days and days I slept away of my childhood nor the crippling anxiety that trapped all my thoughts inside my head into this deafening, indiscernible roar. It wasn’t the hours spent in isolation or the explosive episodes of anger after months of repression. No, all those things were on account of my selfishness, my laziness, and you guessed it, “my satanic nature.” It has to be noted that the translation is a bit awkward, but everything in "mandinka" feels ten times as intense, so it’s safe to say I did take that insult to heart. I mean no one likes being compared to the literal embodiment of evil. Nevertheless, mummy also said my swollen, shut eye, the welts on my back and my busted lip were all on account of my character flaws. Here's the thing though. I’ve always felt neutral about my body; I think mostly to protect myself from what the world thought of a body like mine. I could ignore the lingering eyes of older men or the white women who stared at my cornrows with barely concealed judgement, but my lip, my scars — remnants of my father’s “love” — those spaces on my body cemented that he won. He made me ugly, he made me hate parts of my body, something not even the world could do, and so he seemed omnipotent. I had no chance of ever overpowering him. I think that’s the thing people don’t understand about abuse. When the place that’s supposed to be your safe space, traumatizes you, everything in the world also just crushes you. Small tasks seem like grand trials. So, I sit here, and I read this question and tears well in my eyes as I write the words, because still at nineteen, I can’t be vulnerable without crying. And I know this is serious and big, real words like depression need to be used to validate what I’ve been through, but other times my life just feels like smaller, relatively more insignificant words, like annoying and pathetic. I know, sometimes, I can be really mean to myself. The cliche goes what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but I’ve spent so much of my life wishing someone would just kill me. Of course, I was too weak to do it myself. Every suicidal thought, every angry moment, every single emotion, battled for control in my mind. There was never a moment of stillness, like I was slowly going crazy, so no, this trauma didn't make me stronger. It made me flinch when anyone raised their voice, nonetheless their hand. It made me cower in a room of less than 5 people performing a piece I knew I had perfected. It made me second guess everything I knew about myself, but most importantly, it defined me. I don’t know who I am without this trauma. The coupled factor of the abuse starting when I was merely 7 years old (as far as I can tell) as well as all the memories I’ve lost (whether to protect myself or due to the natural course of life), I cannot tell you who I am without the abuse, because I don't remember. I cannot tell you who I am without him. However, because the law says I am an adult now, I’m singlehandedly responsible for all of it. I have to work to like myself, to trust myself, to give myself respect. I have to build myself up, after years of being torn down, and to tell myself and believe that I am enough. But let me tell you the thing about an anxiety-ridden, depressed over thinker. Everything is so complicated. It is so incredibly hard to validate my feelings without victimizing myself. It is so incredibly hard to give myself grace while holding myself accountable. It is so incredibly hard to be a good friend, sister, daughter, etc., while also protecting my boundaries. Hardest of all has been forgiving my parents and finding a way to move on, while acknowledging what they did was wrong. God, generational trauma really just f**** all of us. So much of my trauma is marbled in the context of race, class, gender, religion, etc., that it’s difficult to pinpoint where exactly it all went wrong. It also hurts to hear my parents’ trauma and know that they didn’t fight through it. They just passed all that hate down to us, and so this responsibility slips down my throat like the bitter taste of malta. It feels impossible and maddening and just so incredibly unfair. Most of all, it hurts and every day that passes, it doesn’t seem to go away. I mean I remember one of the last words my first love ever told me: “I can’t solve your family problems. That’s not something a white outsider can do.” I think about those words all the time and sometimes I even open up the messages just to read that line, over and over again. I guess I hadn’t realized I was waiting for someone to save me. I also, to some degree, didn’t realize I needed saving. I looked at my mom and saw how much she suffered, how little she protected her kids and herself, and I figured I was doomed to the same fate. I thought in the years I began distancing myself from my parents, when I kept my room clean, mouth shut, and grades up that no one would notice; but they did. It just hurt that no one helped. I took those steps into the psychiatric clinic. And if it’s selfish to say that, if it’s selfish to pride myself on picking myself up, by myself, and taking care of myself and protecting my peace, well… by all means, call me selfish.

1. I am the most hard-working person you'll ever meet. LITERALLY. I’m sure many others think likewise, but I can assure you, I’m much more qualified. I'm also a legacy at UPENN so obviously I deserve every opportunity that I've ever been given. Just ignore my mom (who’s the dean), my private school education, and my tutors who write my essays for me. I trust you’ll know what to do. 😃 2. Oh man, I don’t’ know. I probably will just have to join the family firm. Mom’s been making me intern there since I was 15, it’s sooo annoying. I mean, either that or like a reality TV star. I kinda want to be the next Kim Kardashian. 🤪 3. OMG, so one time, I lost my diamond earring in the ocean when we were at the Bahamas – first mistake, I voted Greece. Anyway, I was asking the locals for help, but they couldn’t understand me, like ughhh, who doesn’t understand English by now?! 🙄Anyways, I looked for FIVE minutes, and could not find it. It was okay though, daddy bought me a new one -- 24 carat. 😌 P.S. I am a first generation, low-income, Gambian-American. I don't condone ignorant, classist behavior. (that's totes 2010). 💁🏼‍♀️