Many people don't like labels, but I find them empowering. When I talk about myself, I tend to use labels a lot. I am a first-generation, queer, disabled, former foster youth who has struggled with homelessness, poverty, bullying, mental health issues. But I am also a leader, activist, son, friend, student, actor, and future educator. I have dreams of becoming a theatre teacher in southern California and bringing the arts to schools whose programs are very small or non-existent. To my friends, I'm funny, loyal, smart, and a big hugger. To speak in terms of other labels, I am also someone who struggles with anxiety, depression, disordered eating, C-PTSD, and self-harm. I don't let most people see the side of me that struggles with these. My family is the only people I allow to see this side of me. While they may not be the family I was born with, they are the ones who care and are there when I need them. My family has been some of my biggest supporters in life. They are the ones who tell me it doesn't matter if my scars are showing or that I look amazing when I'm scrutinizing myself in the mirror. They encourage me to eat and remind me that food is fuel. They've helped me go from sobbing in my closet, terrified of leaving the house, to dressed in my sparkly teal show choir uniform, ready to perform. But even with their support, getting out of bed is still a struggle each morning. I can never get enough sleep, even with good sleep habits and doing everything right. And by the time I get out of bed and out to class or work, I'm already struggling to prevent myself from having an anxiety attack. This continues the whole day and only gets worse. Sometimes, I lock myself in a bathroom stall, trying to calm down, and typically, I only manage to calm down slightly. Besides the anxiety, dealing with depression makes it hard to pay attention, find the energy to do school work, or concentrate on anything. And when my depression gets especially bad, I struggle to keep myself safe in terms of harming myself or worse. I've struggled with depression since before 6th grade when I started cutting, and since then, I've been hospitalized multiple times. I think something that has hindered my ability to "get better" has been how mental health is handled in foster care. When I returned from the hospital, or someone discovered I had self-harmed instantly, 15 people had to know about it; it was talked about in a sensitive manner like "How can we help you get better?" It was seen as "Gross; you need to fix it." On top of that, I was never allowed to shut a door behind me, even to the bathroom. I never had any privacy, and as a growing teenager, not having an ounce of privacy hurt more than it helped. Another thing that hindered my ability to do better was the frequent switching of therapists I had to do in the foster system. Luckily, I've been seeing the same therapist for a year now. I think I'm doing better; I recently almost hit a 200-day streak without self-harming. And I've been attempt free for a few months. I think getting out of the foster system has helped greatly as well, finally being able to control my life a little more and create a safe space in my dorm. While I still struggle with my mental health I'm doing better then ever before.