There is a pile of clothes on the floor by my closed bedroom door, and next to it, a bookshelf I barely use anymore. There is a desk littered with clutter and a lamp that blinks in a sad sort of stutter. There are shoes on my carpet that I have barely worn because most of the time, I don’t go anywhere. I think I have convinced myself, at one point, that if I filled my room with enough things if they took up enough space, then I wouldn’t have to. Then I could blend into the room and disappear into the surroundings. I was a part of the mess that was my room. I blend in so well, I have forgotten where my bed ends and my body begins, but leaving it takes effort, so I will just lie down again. My head throbs with the sunrise and aches with the sunset, but it is duller now because I have become accustomed to it. I have forgotten what bare floors and folded sheets even look like. I have forgotten when I didn’t exist this way. I have neglected myself for so long. I didn’t know where to start trying to help myself. The feeling of desperation was palpable. It took time, but I eventually came to terms with realizing that I can’t change my past, but I have the strength to change my future. For many years, I held on to the belief that through therapy and medication, I could glue my cracks back into seamless porcelain, but I know that the cracks will always be a part of me. No matter how I put my pieces together, they will never fit just right. There will forever be scars etched in my skin, I am not flawless. It hurts knowing my pain has altered every aspect of my life, but I am not bitter. I wipe my tears and use them to water my gardens of hope because while I don’t believe that life gets easier I have learned that it can gain meaning. I can’t change the choices I have made or the consequences and challenges I am forced to face. I am allowed to grieve the person I could have been. But I refuse to sit in my grief and waste the time I have been given. While I am not perfect, I am learning to craft art with the broken shards I call my life. After years of therapy, hard work, and determination, I have found my strength. I choose not to feel like I did before, I choose not to allow it to control my life. I now know I have a purpose. I’ve overcome what I once thought was unattainable by being comfortable in my skin. This is all to say that I have cultivated a strong passion to help those in need. I believe I am uniquely qualified to assist those that are going through similar struggles and can provide a perspective from personal experience. These days there is a pile of clothes in my laundry basket by my open bedroom door, and next to it, a bookshelf filled with books I have voraciously devoured. There is now a desk empty except for a computer and textbook, and there is a lamp that shines bright. There are shoes laid perfectly on the carpet that is now dirty from their use of them. My room is now filled with an ambiance of hope, promise, life and strength.

There is a pile of clothes on the floor by my closed bedroom door, and next to it, a bookshelf I barely use anymore. There is a desk littered with clutter, and a lamp that blinks in a sad sort of stutter. There are shoes on my carpet that I have barely worn because most of the time, I don’t go anywhere. I think I have convinced myself, at one point, that if I filled my room with enough things, if they took up enough space, then I wouldn’t have to. Then I could blend into the room and disappear into the surroundings. I was a part of the mess that was my room. I blend in so well, I have forgotten where my bed ends and my body begins, but leaving it takes effort, so I will just lie down again. My head throbs with the sunrise and aches with the sunset, but it is duller now because I have become accustomed to it. I have forgotten what bare floors and folded sheets even look like. I have forgotten when I didn’t exist this way. I have neglected myself for so long. I didn’t know where to start trying to help myself. The feeling of desperation was palpable. It took time, but I eventually came to terms with realizing that I can’t change my past, but I have the strength to change my future. For many years, I held on to the belief that through therapy and medication I could glue my cracks back into seamless porcelain, but I know that the cracks will always be a part of me. No matter how I put my pieces together, they will never fit just right. There will forever be scars etched in my skin, I am not flawless. It hurts knowing my pain has altered every aspect of my life, but I am not bitter. I wipe my tears and use them to water my gardens of hope, because while I don’t believe that life gets easier I have learned that it can gain meaning. I can’t change the choices I have made, or the consequences and challenges I am forced to face. I am allowed to grieve the person I could have been. But I refuse to sit in my grief and waste the time I have been given. While I am not perfect, I am learning to craft art with the broken shards I call my life. After years of therapy, hard work, and determination, I have found my strength. I choose not to feel like I did before, I choose not to allow it to control my life. I now know I have a purpose. I’ve overcome what I once thought was unattainable with being comfortable in my own skin. This is all to say that I have cultivated a strong passion to help those in need. I believe I am uniquely qualified to assist those that are going through similar struggles and can provide a perspective from personal experience. I would like nothing more than to major in psychology. These days there is a pile of clothes in my laundry basket by my open bedroom door, and next to it, a bookshelf filled with books I have voraciously devoured. There is now a desk empty except for a computer and textbook, and there is a lamp that shines bright. There are shoes laid perfectly on the carpet that are now dirty from the use of them. My room is now filled with an ambience of hope, promise, life and strength.