Of Words and Stars Sophia Christensen Sometimes, I think words are like stars. They rise, heated and boiling, begging to shine, in my throat. Waiting to create their own solar system and their own life. But they sit at the back of my mouth, suspended in darkness and anticipation for what feels like eternities, only to be snuffed and swallowed because I cannot figure out how to put them in the right order. Sometimes the same star begs to be born over and over again, its anticipation and energy growing each time, slowly gaining mass and feelings and thoughts. I'm getting closer to it, and the less space between us, the larger it seems. Eventually, it feels like I'm swallowing the sun, and it is scorching my throat the whole way down. Eventually, I feel like an Icarus, I have waited too long, drifted too close, and the words explode outwards, in a beautiful mess of color and emotion that is incomprehensible to all but me. I know that I can paint galaxies and nebulas with my pencil on paper, write into existence universes, but when I speak, it comes out jumbled and wrong. I feel like I've struck the match of creation with no way to control the flame. It makes forests burn, and black holes form. It destroys the beautifully crafted worlds I've worked so hard to make. It feels like all of my stars are dying, but I know that I will not see their light fade for millions of years yet. That somehow makes it worse. I always try to use soft words. I release the stars with the softest light, the ones that are easy to miss and unnoticeable in the night sky, but I still hold back the ones that are burning through my skull. I know that there has to be a way to say it without hurting, though I haven't found it yet. But there are so many bright stars burning on my tongue. I have so many words to say, it's just so hard to figure out how to say them. So I swallow the sun. Over and over and over again, until it burns through my throat and refuses to be held back any longer. Please, someone, anyone. Do you understand what it feels like to swallow the sun?

I have struggled with my mental health throughout most of my childhood and adolescence. There have been many times when I felt the world might be better off without me in it. This suicidal ideation has haunted me throughout my adolescent years, though recently I have begun to understand why. One particularly low point was my years in middle school - they still affect me deeply. For some context, my family doesn’t have a great track record as far as mental health goes. My immediate and extended family never really got the help they needed, and they didn't know how to handle children well. Because of this, I was never taught how to work through my emotions in a healthy way. As I got older, this culminated in the form of unhealthy coping mechanisms such as insomnia and depression. My self-hatred festered within me throughout my childhood, reaching a peak in my seventh grade year. When I was in seventh grade, a friend of mine told me that she was suicidal. I had no idea what to say to her. I was eleven years old - I had never had to, nor should I have ever had to, deal with a situation like that. Because I had no idea what else I should do, I simply said “I won’t let you!” in a cheery tone and moved along with the conversation. Similar situations kept occurring, and I responded the same way each time. This is one of the things I regret the most - not trying to do something more to help her. Soon, my friend stopped showing up to school. In March, I was called down to the councilor's office, where we received the devastating news that she had tried to commit suicide. I don’t remember much of what happened after that - there was static filling my skull, and my eyes couldn’t focus on anything. The only thought in my head was that it was all my fault. I should have done something to try and help her. I had been too scared to tell an adult because she said she didn’t want me to, but that was all I wished I had done. The vicious cycle of guilt consumed my mind, causing my health to continue declining. By the time my seventh grade year rolled around, I felt that I deserved nothing. Not my friends, my family, or even my own life. I pushed those I loved away and hurt myself more. I convinced myself that it was for the best so they wouldn’t miss me when Ieft. After that school year passed, my friend and I quickly fell out of contact, but my memories didn’t fade so easily. This incident has stuck with me for a long time now, though I’m learning to live with the weight of that experience. As I grow older, I have come to understand the reason certain things trigger me, why those events were traumatizing, and what I can do to recognize and grow from them. I’m not crazy for being angry, sad, or fearful about traumatic things - there is legitimate logic rooted in my experiences. Because of this, I always do my best to never take the things I have for granted - my life seems much more vibrant now that I have seen it lose all color and meaning. In a twisted sort of way, I'm grateful for these painful experiences. I have a deep appreciation for the people close to me, and I am determined to provide for others the same light that was given to me.

I have struggled with my mental health throughout most of my childhood and adolescence. There have been many times when I felt the world might be better off without me in it. This suicidal ideation has haunted me throughout my adolescent years, though recently I have begun to understand why. One particularly low point was my years in middle school - they still affect me deeply. For some context, my family doesn’t have a great track record as far as mental health goes. My immediate and extended family never really got the help they needed, and they didn't know how to handle children well. Because of this, I was never taught how to work through my emotions in a healthy way. As I got older, this culminated in the form of unhealthy coping mechanisms such as insomnia and depression. My self-hatred festered within me throughout my childhood, reaching a peak in my seventh grade year. When I was in seventh grade, a friend of mine told me that she was suicidal. I had no idea what to say to her. I was eleven years old - I had never had to, nor should I have ever had to, deal with a situation like that. Because I had no idea what else I should do, I simply said “I won’t let you!” in a cheery tone and moved along with the conversation. Similar situations kept occurring, and I responded the same way each time. This is one of the things I regret the most - not trying to do something more to help her. Soon, my friend stopped showing up to school. In March, I was called down to the councilor's office, where we received the devastating news that she had tried to commit suicide. I don’t remember much of what happened after that - there was static filling my skull, and my eyes couldn’t focus on anything. The only thought in my head was that it was all my fault. I should have done something to try and help her. I had been too scared to tell an adult because she said she didn’t want me to, but that was all I wished I had done. The vicious cycle of guilt consumed my mind, causing my health to continue declining. By the time my seventh grade year rolled around, I felt that I deserved nothing. Not my friends, my family, or even my own life. I pushed those I loved away and hurt myself more. I convinced myself that it was for the best so they wouldn’t miss me when Ieft. After that school year passed, my friend and I quickly fell out of contact, but my memories didn’t fade so easily. This incident has stuck with me for a long time now, though I’m learning to live with the weight of that experience. As I grow older, I have come to understand the reason certain things trigger me, why those events were traumatizing, and what I can do to recognize and grow from them. I’m not crazy for being angry, sad, or fearful about traumatic things - there is legitimate logic rooted in my experiences. Because of this, I always do my best to never take the things I have for granted - my life seems much more vibrant now that I have seen it lose all color and meaning. In a twisted sort of way, I'm grateful for these painful experiences. I have a deep appreciation for the people close to me, and I am determined to provide for others the same light that was given to me.

I have struggled with my mental health throughout most of my childhood and adolescence. There have been many times when I felt the world might be better off without me in it. This suicidal ideation has haunted me throughout my adolescent years, though recently I have begun to understand why. One particularly low point was my years in middle school - they still affect me deeply. For some context, my family doesn’t have a great track record as far as mental health goes. My immediate and extended family never really got the help they needed, and they didn't know how to handle children well. Because of this, I was never taught how to work through my emotions in a healthy way. As I got older, this culminated in the form of unhealthy coping mechanisms such as insomnia and depression. My self-hatred festered within me throughout my childhood, reaching a peak in my seventh grade year. When I was in seventh grade, a friend of mine told me that she was suicidal. I had no idea what to say to her. I was eleven years old - I had never had to, nor should I have ever had to, deal with a situation like that. Because I had no idea what else I should do, I simply said “I won’t let you!” in a cheery tone and moved along with the conversation. Similar situations kept occurring, and I responded the same way each time. This is one of the things I regret the most - not trying to do something more to help her. Soon, my friend stopped showing up to school. In March, I was called down to the councilor's office, where we received the devastating news that she had tried to commit suicide. I don’t remember much of what happened after that - there was static filling my skull, and my eyes couldn’t focus on anything. The only thought in my head was that it was all my fault. I should have done something to try and help her. I had been too scared to tell an adult because she said she didn’t want me to, but that was all I wished I had done. The vicious cycle of guilt consumed my mind, causing my health to continue declining. By the time my seventh grade year rolled around, I felt that I deserved nothing. Not my friends, my family, or even my own life. I pushed those I loved away and hurt myself more. I convinced myself that it was for the best so they wouldn’t miss me when Ieft. After that school year passed, my friend and I quickly fell out of contact, but my memories didn’t fade so easily. This incident has stuck with me for a long time now, though I’m learning to live with the weight of that experience. As I grow older, I have come to understand the reason certain things trigger me, why those events were traumatizing, and what I can do to recognize and grow from them. I’m not crazy for being angry, sad, or fearful about traumatic things - there is legitimate logic rooted in my experiences. Because of this, I always do my best to never take the things I have for granted - my life seems much more vibrant now that I have seen it lose all color and meaning. In a twisted sort of way, I'm grateful for these painful experiences. I have a deep appreciation for the people close to me, and I am determined to provide for others the same light that was given to me.

I have struggled with my mental health throughout most of my childhood and adolescence. There have been many times when I felt the world might be better off without me in it. This suicidal ideation has haunted me throughout my teenage years, though recently I have begun to understand why. One particularly low point was my years in middle school - they shaped me as a person more than any other experience I've had in my life.     For some context, my family doesn’t have a great track record as far as mental health goes. My immediate and extended family never really got the help they needed, and they didn't know how to handle children well. Because of this, I was never taught how to work through my emotions in a healthy way. As I got older, this culminated in the form of unhealthy coping mechanisms such as insomnia and depression. My self-hatred festered within me throughout my childhood, reaching a peak in my seventh grade year. When I was in seventh grade, a friend of mine told me that she was suicidal. I had no idea what to say to her. I was eleven years old - I had never had to, nor should I have ever had to, deal with a situation like that. Because I had no idea what else I should do, I simply said “I won’t let you!” in a cheery tone and moved along with the conversation. Similar situations kept occurring, and I responded the same way each time. This is one of the things I regret the most - not trying to do something more to help her. Soon, my friend stopped showing up to school. Because her family was notorious for moving a lot, I assumed that her family had left. However, in March, I was called down to the councilor's office, where we received the devastating news that she had tried to commit suicide. I don’t remember much of what happened after that - there was static filling my skull, and my eyes couldn’t focus on anything. The only thought in my head was that it was all my fault. I should have done something to try and help her. I had been too scared to tell an adult because she said she didn’t want me to, but that was all I wished I had done. The vicious cycle of guilt consumed my mind, causing my health to continue declining. By the time my seventh grade year rolled around, I felt that I deserved nothing. Not my friends, my family, or even my own life. I pushed those I loved away and hurt myself more. I convinced myself that it was for the best so they wouldn’t miss me when Ieft. After that school year passed, my friend and I quickly fell out of contact, but my memories didn’t fade so easily. This incident has stuck with me for a long time now, though I’m learning to live with the weight of that experience. As I grow older, I have come to understand the reason certain things trigger me, why those events were traumatizing, and what I can do to recognize and grow from them. I understand that my emotions are valid. I’m not crazy for being angry, sad, or fearful about traumatic things - there is legitimate logic rooted in my experiences. Because of this, I always do my best to never take the things I have for granted - my life seems much more vibrant now that I have seen it lose all color and meaning. In a twisted sort of way, I'm grateful for these painful experiences. I have a deep appreciation for the people close to me, and I am determined to provide for others the same light that was given to me.