My mental health struggles began early in my adolescence and only worsened as I attended high school. My illnesses made it difficult for me to reach out for help or communicate my needs. For one, insufficient sleep kept me groggy and irritable throughout the day. I never had the energy to complete tasks or assignments or even hang out with friends. I became hopeless, believing that I was alone in this hardship and a lost cause. After months of my mother’s insisting, I finally caved and started seeing a psychiatrist and began therapy during my sophomore year of high school. I was diagnosed as Bipolar Unspecified, among other conditions. This was horrible news to me because my father has Bipolar, and I always saw the illness as the condition that motivated his negative behaviors. I was scared that I would start to act in the ways he did: he would blame me for matters I had no control over, guilt me into talking to him because I “didn’t care enough,” and start futile arguments with me that served no purpose with no benefits. Getting medicated was tricky. I tried countless medications, but not much improved. We later discovered from a test that I have an L-methylfolate deficiency, resulting from an MTHFR gene mutation that limits my body’s ability to convert folic acid into L-methylfolate. This also impacts the way my body processes certain medications – some being completely ineffective. It took some time, but through plenty of trial and error, I finally found a regimen that suited my needs. Over the years with a few slip-ups, I now understand how important it is to continuously take my medications and not skip out on days. I have also found how beneficial it is to spend time outside in the sun. Being out in nature helps ground me when I feel like I’m going to spiral. When I can’t get outdoors, I utilize my coping mechanisms such as crocheting, writing, and meditating. I pay attention to what my body is telling me and I know my limits. I don’t try to push myself past those limits because it results in breakdowns and losing control of my emotions. In school, I’m learning how to manage my time efficiently to be more productive. This includes creating lists to track my to-dos and assignments, determining my priorities, establishing realistic deadlines, and sticking to a schedule to avoid distractions by working during my most productive hours. In my personal life, I am improving my quality of life by spending time doing what makes me happy (i.e. hanging out with friends and family, indulging in my hobbies, or treating myself for small victories). I’m implementing rewards into my daily life as motivation to get through the day. I’m trying to develop and maintain healthy habits in my routine like being socially and physically active, meditating, eating healthy, and getting outside more often. I’m also practicing acting generously by putting energy into things and people that are important to me because doing so brings me peace and joy.

My name is Kathleen Butler and I’m from Surprise, Arizona. Even though I don’t live near many waters, I have always felt a calling to them. I plan to move to Corvallis, Oregon to attend Oregon State University. There I will major in environmental science with a focus in aquatic biology. In school, I’ve done a lot of research on humanity’s detrimental effects on our marine ecosystems. One project I completed was an essay and presentation on ocean acidification. The ocean's vastness may seem intimidating and impenetrable, but it’s something that needs to be taken on with confidence and presence of mind. Biodiversity is waning rapidly as the dangerous effects of ocean acidification take hold on marine ecosystems, worsened by increasing carbon emissions. Ideas promoting reduction and removal may only be in infancy but are growing quickly as more people are taking the initiative and advocating for the ocean. Constant stress on the ocean is progressively intensifying global warming, yet the insistent pleas of the enlightened fall silent on the ears of the ignorant. I aspire to become an aquatic restoration ecologist. As so, I will study marine environments to repair ecosystems that have been damaged by humans to rehabilitate these natural habitats. I will spread awareness and educate the public on procedures for ecosystem conservation as well as design ecological restoration development projects that focus on methods to repair coral reefs, make progress toward habitat nourishment and conservation, and assist marine species migration to reach their corresponding habitats.

It’s not uncommon for teenage girls to not have great relationships with their parents. For me, my dad. My parents weren’t married when I was born. They separated when I was three while we were living in Texas. My dad moved away to Oklahoma, and my mom took me and moved to Arizona. We lived in a single-parent household for three years until my mom met my now step-dad. As I grew up, I learned to live with this new family. I was still too young to understand why my mom and dad weren’t together anymore, or why I lived with my mom instead of my dad. Later, I learned that my dad wasn’t stable enough - mentally or financially - to support a family. I also found out that my dad had a mental illness known as Bipolar Disorder, a disorder characterized by heavy mood swings, agitation, as well as frequent and unusual shifts in energy and behavior. Eleven-year-old me was appalled. I understood why he would blame me for matters I had no control over, guilt me into talking to him because I “didn’t care enough,” and start futile arguments with me that served no purpose with no benefits. Bipolar Disorder became one of the most fearsome diseases I would ever know. I had been struggling immensely with my mental wellness since the start of seventh grade. During my sophomore year of high school, my mom persisted until I finally caved and started seeing a psychiatrist. Her name was Delaney. She was a kind woman who opened me up to a harsh reality. When I took the questionnaire she sent through the mail, I turned to a page that frightened me: the page was full of questions about having the feeling of being watched, seeing things that others could not, feeling easily irritated towards others, and when so, wanting to hurt them... I checked “yes” on every single one. Once my evaluation was complete, Delaney scheduled our next appointment. I remember it clearly: she looked me in the eyes with a sad smile and announced that I, too, was fated to Bipolar Disorder. I gasped in shock - I was petrified. My mom looked at me - knowing what was on my mind. She moved her hand to calm my jittering leg as Delaney gave her speech. There is no way, I thought, I have the same thing as Dad. I have the same disease. I was terrified I would start to act like him - to become him. High school dragged on and on, and the symptoms only worsened. I continued to be diagnosed with other illnesses/conditions, such as ADHD, GAD, Insomnia, and Social Phobia. As many teenagers like to say, I was miserable. I was drowning in school. Thoughts of dropping out plagued my mind. I developed maladaptive coping mechanisms, carving and tearing at my shoulders and thighs. Then, the suicidal idealization began. It seemed like the only way out, my only remaining option. Ms. Babler was my freshman English teacher. She became my ray of hope in a storm of adversity. I never felt so connected to a teacher in my experience as a student. Through certain circumstances, she was one of my teachers from freshman through junior year. By the end of her time at my high school, she was like a mother to me, she was my school-mom. It helped that she and my mom were close enough to be sisters. She guided me to my path of recovery. My wounds healed - inside and out. My scars now fade. Seven months clean.

It’s not uncommon for teenage girls to not have great relationships with their parents. For me, it’s my dad. My parents weren’t married when I was born. They separated when I was three while we were living in Texas. My dad moved away to Oklahoma, and my mom took me and moved to Arizona. We lived in a single-parent household for three years until my mom met my now step-dad. As I grew up, I learned to live with this new family. I was still too young to understand why my mom and dad weren’t together anymore, or why I lived with my mom instead of my dad. Later, I learned that my dad wasn’t stable enough - mentally or financially - to support a family. I also found out that my dad had a mental illness known as Bipolar Disorder, a disorder characterized by heavy mood swings, agitation, as well as frequent and unusual shifts in energy and behavior. Eleven-year-old me was appalled. I understood why he would blame me for matters I had no control over, guilt me into talking to him because I “didn’t care enough,” and start futile arguments with me that served no purpose with no benefits. Bipolar Disorder became one of the most fearsome diseases I would ever know. I had been struggling immensely with my mental wellness since the start of 7th grade. During my sophomore year of high school, my mom persisted until I finally caved and started seeing a psychiatrist. Her name was Delaney. She was a kind woman who opened me up to a harsh reality. When I took the questionnaire she sent through the mail, I turned to a page that frightened me: the page was full of questions about having the feeling of being watched, seeing things that others could not, feeling easily irritated towards others, and when so, wanting to hurt them... I checked “yes” on every single one. Once my evaluation was complete, Delaney scheduled our next appointment. I remember it clearly: she looked me in the eyes with a sad smile and announced that I, too, was fated to Bipolar Disorder. I gasped in shock - I was petrified. My mom looked at me - knowing what was on my mind. She moved her hand to calm my jittering leg as Delaney gave her speech. There is no way, I thought, I have the same thing as Dad. I have the same disease. I was terrified I would start to act like him - to become him. High school dragged on and on, and the symptoms only worsened. I continued to be diagnosed with other illnesses/conditions, such as ADHD, GAD, Insomnia, and Social Phobia. As many teenagers like to say, I was miserable. I was drowning in school. Thoughts of dropping out plagued my mind. I developed maladaptive coping mechanisms, carving and tearing at my shoulders and thighs. Then, the suicidal idealization began. It seemed like the only way out, my only remaining option. Ms. Babler was my freshman English teacher. She became my ray of hope in a storm of adversity. I never felt so connected to a teacher in my experience as a student. Through certain circumstances, she was one of my teachers from freshman through junior year. By the end of her time at my high school, she was like a mother to me, she was my school-mom. It helped that she and my mom were close enough to be sisters. She guided me to my path of recovery. My wounds healed - inside and out. My scars now fade. Seven months clean.

Hunter X Hunter is a six-season, shonen anime about a twelve-year-old boy named Gon Freecss who, with the help of his friends Kurapika, Leorio, and Killua, explores the magical world to defeat foes, discover magical treasures, and locate rare animal species. The general theme of the anime is centered around friendships, self-discovery, and finding courage to counter adversity. Yes, Hunter X Hunter is a shonen anime, which is characterized by action and adventure, but the way the writers value original storytelling above fighting to create a less predictable plot makes it stand out as one of my favorite animes. I also love the way Gon and Killua’s friendship evolves as the plot develops. Killua is Gon’s first friend. At first, Killua was against this idea because he was raised to believe he didn’t need friends and that he was stronger on his own. However, from then on, the two were inseparable. Gon helps Killua step out of his shell, and Killua will do anything to protect Gon. Together, Gon and Killua are an unstoppable force as they work side by side to conquer the hardest aspects of being a Hunter. They have one of the best friendships in any anime. Killua learns how to care through Gon, Killua helps Gon become more fierce, and the two just become stronger as they work off of each other. The imaginative storytelling and creative bond between characters in Hunter X Hunter is what makes the series one of my all-time favorite animes.

I had been struggling immensely with my mental wellness since the start of 7th grade. During my freshman year of high school, my mom persisted until I finally caved and started seeing a psychiatrist. Her name was Delaney. She was a kind woman who opened me up to a harsh reality. When I took the questionnaire she sent through the mail, I turned to a page that frightened me: the page was full of questions about having the feeling of being watched, seeing things that others could not, feeling easily irritated towards others, and when so, wanting to hurt them... I checked “yes” on every single one. Once my evaluation was complete, Delaney scheduled our next appointment. I remember it clearly: she looked me in the eyes with a sad smile and announced that I, too, was fated to Bipolar Disorder. This diagnosis filled me with fear, discontentment, and uneasiness as I understood that I had then been diagnosed with the same disorder as my father. I had only been eleven years old when I finally understood the reason why he would blame me for matters I had no control over, guilt me into talking to him because I “didn’t care enough,” and start futile arguments with me that served no purpose with no benefits. That reason was his Bipolar Disorder. High school dragged on and on, and my symptoms only worsened. I continued to be diagnosed with other illnesses/conditions, such as ADHD, GAD, Insomnia, and Social Phobia. As many teenagers like to say, I was miserable. My depression grew and grew. It was the ball and chain that dragged me down to my lowest of lows. So low, even, that it led me to believe carving deep lines on my shoulders and thighs would liberate the pain and tension throughout my body. I would go into rage fits where I would throw and break as many objects as I could; then, when nothing was left, I turned to my skin. I cannot easily describe the sensation cutting brought me, but imagine running a needle over a balloon filled with air — like someone blew it up as much as they could just before its breaking point. The needle may skip over the tightly stretched surface of the latex. It dances around the circumference of the balloon singing its taunting tune. The balloon aches and the anticipation grows and grows. It begs for its insides to be released as the pressure becomes unbearable. POP! At last, the needle jerks and pierces the fine skin of the balloon. All the built-up air from inside whooshes out as the balloon bursts open. Instead of air, crimson liquid rises to the surface of the skin of my thighs. I can feel the burn. Buzzing overtakes my ears, and tingles spread up my body. The mania that coursed through my veins has been set free and leaks down my legs. This other form that has taken hold of me looks down and almost admires its work. I hear my mom’s footsteps coming down the hallway, but she was too late. That was the last time: February 3, 2023, 11:32 am.

I had been struggling immensely with my mental wellness since the start of 7th grade. During my freshman year of high school, my mom persisted until I finally caved and started seeing a psychiatrist. Her name was Delaney. She was a kind woman who opened me up to a harsh reality. When I took the questionnaire she sent through the mail, I turned to a page that frightened me: the page was full of questions about having the feeling of being watched, seeing things that others could not, feeling easily irritated towards others, and when so, wanting to hurt them... I checked “yes” on every single one. Once my evaluation was complete, Delaney scheduled our next appointment. I remember it clearly: she looked me in the eyes with a sad smile and announced that I, too, was fated to Bipolar Disorder. This diagnosis filled me with fear, discontentment, and uneasiness as I understood that I had then been diagnosed with the same disorder as my father. I had only been eleven years old when I finally understood the reason why he would blame me for matters I had no control over, guilt me into talking to him because I “didn’t care enough,” and start futile arguments with me that served no purpose with no benefits. That reason was his Bipolar Disorder. High school dragged on and on, and my symptoms only worsened. I continued to be diagnosed with other illnesses/conditions, such as ADHD, GAD, Insomnia, and Social Phobia. As many teenagers like to say, I was miserable. My depression grew and grew. It was the ball and chain that dragged me down to my lowest of lows. So low, even, that it led me to believe carving deep lines on my shoulders and thighs would liberate the pain and tension throughout my body. I would go into rage fits where I would throw and break as many objects as I could; then, when nothing was left, I turned to my skin. I cannot easily describe the sensation cutting brought me, but imagine running a needle over a balloon filled with air — like someone blew it up as much as they could just before its breaking point. The needle may skip over the tightly stretched surface of the latex. It dances around the circumference of the balloon singing its taunting tune. The balloon aches and the anticipation grows and grows. It begs for its insides to be released as the pressure becomes unbearable. POP! At last, the needle jerks and pierces the fine skin of the balloon. All the built-up air from inside whooshes out as the balloon bursts open. Instead of air, crimson liquid rises to the surface of the skin of my thighs. I can feel the burn. Buzzing overtakes my ears, and tingles spread up my body. The mania that coursed through my veins has been set free and leaks down my legs. This other form that has taken hold of me looks down and almost admires its work. I hear my mom’s footsteps coming down the hallway, but she was too late. That was the last time: February 3, 2023, 11:32 am.