For the longest time, I believed that my story would forever be one of sadness or even tragedy. I believed that my story would be short, devoid of hope or purpose. But today, I stand before you, hopeful and eager to share my story. I truly believed that I would not be here today to tell my own story. I thought that if anyone were to hear my story, it would be from someone else’s mouth. For a very long time, I thought my impact on the world would be greater if I wasn’t here.
I grew up in a small town in Manitoba, where mental health was not something we talked about. I can’t recall much of my childhood because so many of my early memories have been overshadowed by traumatic experiences.
One vivid memory that has stayed with me is from when I was just nine years old. One late night, just after Christmas, I heard a loud commotion coming from the other room. I got out of bed and walked down the hall into the kitchen, where I saw my parents on either side, separated by two police officers as they yelled and screamed at each other.I had never seen them argue before. I ran back and forth between them, desperately trying to understand what was going on. A police officer escorted me back to my room, where I fell asleep crying on the floor, only to be woken up by my mom moments later, telling me to pack my bags. She took my two brothers and me to a women’s shelter that was 45 minutes away.
From that moment on, my life changed forever.
We stayed at the shelter for a few weeks before returning home, and shortly after, my mom’s boyfriend moved in. While my dad is kind and caring, my mom’s boyfriend was nothing like that. He had a bad temper and drank a lot. They ended up having four kids together. Because of this, I was forced to grow up quickly and take on a lot of responsibility at a young age. From late childhood throughout my teenage years, my routine consisted of school, homework, housework, and helping my mom with janitorial jobs.
During those years, I experienced other hardships as well.
At the age of 12, I began to be sexually abused by someone close to me. I felt powerless and terrified. I didn’t have anyone or anywhere to turn to.
My relationship with my mother was strained, and I felt completely and utterly alone. I grew up in a household where wanting to die was normalized. I frequently heard the adults in my house say things like, “I wish I would just drop dead,” or, “Everyone would be so much happier if I died.” Hearing these things my entire life, how was I supposed to know at the age of 12 that I shouldn’t be thinking about taking my own life? How was I supposed to know that these weren’t things everyone felt? How was I supposed to know that, at 14, most people hadn’t already tried to take their own life?
School was not much better.
I was heavily bullied because I didn’t look or act like anyone else in my small town, making me a target for the other girls. By the time I reached grade 12, the bullying had escalated to the point where I was put on suicide watch and I frequently skipped school. I barely graduated high school, and I truly didn’t know that anything was wrong. I believed that life was awful, that I was a miserable person, and that this was simply who I was and how things were going to be.
As the years passed, I found myself trapped in a cycle of abusive relationships and self-harm. I moved around a lot in an attempt to distract myself. Starting over felt easier than dealing with or confronting how I felt and everything I had been through.
Eventually, I moved to London. I liked it here, until everything caught up with me again. I was still unhappy. I was still traumatized, and I still felt alone. I worked long hours to try to bury the overwhelming hopelessness I felt, until eventually, I couldn’t do it anymore. I could barely leave the house without crying first. I never felt like I was important enough to take care of myself, and I still didn’t fully understand the grip that mental illness had on me.
The biggest turning point in my life came about a week after my car was stolen and crashed. I had lost my independence and my freedom, and I had fallen into debt. I didn’t feel like this was something I could recover from. In that moment of crisis, my brain would not let me believe anything different. I felt like there was absolutely no hope and no point in trying.
I was wrong.
I can’t even begin to express how grateful I am to still be here today and to have survived the darkest chapters of my life, especially during the times when I never believed things would get better.
Things were still hard, and I still felt lost for a long time. It took a few trips to the crisis unit before I found someone who saw me for who I was and understood what I was going through. I finally found someone who made me feel seen and heard. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel completely alone. I don’t know what it was that made me keep going back to the crisis unit, or why I kept seeking help, but I am so grateful that I did.
I also began writing very openly about how I felt and how difficult life had been growing up. I started sharing some of these personal experiences online.
A few months later, I flew back home for a visit. One night, we ordered pizza, and I went into the restaurant to pick it up. While I was waiting in line, one of the waitresses came up to me and told me she had been following me and reading some of my posts.
She thanked me for being so open and honest about my struggles and my journey. She told me that after reading some of what I had been through, it helped her reflect on her own life and realize that she wasn’t doing okay. It gave her the courage to reach out to someone, and she was doing much better because of it.
That really encouraged me. So, I kept writing. More people began reaching out to me. I still have bad days, but as I open up, as I write, and as I use my story to help others, the pain of my past defines me less and less.
I found a program here in London that helped me immensely. I began seeing a psychiatrist, attended trauma and anxiety management groups, participated in DBT, and took medication. I put in the work to understand myself and to feel better.
It certainly wasn’t easy, but it was so worth it. It took me a very long time to find my voice, but now I have the privilege of using that voice to help others stay and to help others feel less alone.
I believe that mental health needs to be talked about more openly. Maybe if I had known there was someone else out there who understood what I was feeling, I could have found my path to recovery sooner. Maybe I could have recognized that something was wrong before I reached a crisis point.
I like to tell people to speak from scars, not wounds.
I believe we can be honest about the things we’ve survived without reopening everything we worked so hard to heal from. There are some awful experiences that have shaped me, but they are not the entirety of my story.
It is possible to rewrite your story.
It is possible to find hope when it is something you have never believed in.
There was a version of myself who couldn’t imagine being here today, and now I am standing here in front of all of you. There is a version of myself I never knew was possible. This version of me is celebrating five and a half years of being self-harm-free. I have found a community of people who have made me feel seen, loved, and safe in ways I never thought I would experience. There was a version of me who thought my story would be better told by someone else. That version of me was wrong.
I am so grateful to be here today, to share my story, and to tell whoever needs to hear it:
I see you.
I understand you.
You are not alone.
Things can get better.
You are worth the fight. You are worth the work.
You are just in a version of yourself where you can’t see that future version of yourself yet.