The 6 Times I Was ‘Reborn’ as a Survivor of Abuse and Suicide

The first time I was born into this life, I was ripped from my mother’s flesh with the knife skimming my skin; I was given my first Band-Aid at only 20 minutes old.

The second time I was born into this life was when I was plunged undoubtedly and unwillingly into the #MeToo movement, head-first, at only 7 years old.

The third time I was born into this life was when my life almost ended at my own hand. I was rushed to the mental hospital for the first time at only 12 years old.

The fourth time I was born into this life was when I was crushed with diagnoses, prescriptions and pills galore. I had to swallow countless every day just to keep me alive. I was only 13 years old.

The fifth time I was born into this life was when all my secrets came pouring out of my mouth to my mom, whom I was afraid to lose — the first time I felt total forgiveness, when I was only 14 years old.

The sixth time I was reborn into this life was when, after eight more hospitalizations I had finally understood I needed to heal; there was no other option. I stopped running. I was only 15 years old.

The seventh time I was born into this life was when I finally internalized: suicide can never be the answer, for it’s not you who it affects.

Everyone around you will suffer. Your mother, who is still scared she is going to lose you; your father, whose jokes would slowly die out; your brother, who would never have an audience cheering and yelling when he plays his video games; and your dog, who would never stop waiting at the door for you to get home from school.

I realized I was going to be OK. I could get through this next day, hour and second. I was only 16 years old.

For now, I am 17, things slowly unraveling back to the happiness I had reluctantly accepted that I had lost years ago.

I am 17 and I still struggle, but I am reborn into this life again as a fresh start every day.

Now I am 17, going on with the rest of my life knowing the first time I was born into this life, at only 20 minutes old, I was given a Band-Aid; I still wear that bandage today, in my heart, as a sign that they didn’t give up on me. So, neither should I.