Yes, it choked the wind from my broken wings and flopped me heavy on pavement asphalt where I churned and burned and felt oddly; satisfied.
Yes, it made me different.
Yes, it kept me up all hours of the night writing feverishly about all the things you wake up sweaty and feverish too only to want to tell someone about but don’t want to re-live on the off chance that speaking it out-loud might make it come true.
Yes, it caused me to lose my friends, my family, and all things dear to me and left me alone on a dingy mattress in a basement of a house a friend I’d only known for several months pitied me to have. Until I could, of course, get on my feet.
Yes, with it comes swarming memories of childhood sexual abuse and triggers and rejection so heavy I cannot but help carry the cinder blocks upon my back and deny them even if you point them out on a good day.
Yes, it is the shadow of every suicide attempt and every white and yellow pill and every doctor who had three minutes to ask me if I was a harm to myself or to others; it is when I finally realized ….
NO. It does not define me.
I am beautiful. I am raw. I am relevant.
I am the whisper I was born with on the voice of purpose set forth on the day that I was born which said, “FOR I KNOW THE PLANS I HAVE FOR YOU!”
I am all the colors of the rainbow and then some because I am not afraid to paint with my fingers, my nose, and even the tips of my tongue which have been released from your judgmental words.
I am a creator. I am an inspiration. I am bold. I am vivid. I am a successful mother, wife, career woman, author, speaker, lover, friend, daughter, sister, and the woman who bent towards you when you fell and no one else cared enough to stop – I saw you because while I am not defined by the fall, Thank you GOD, I am made purposeful for it.
I am not defined by my disorder.
Neither are you.