Ever since I was a child, I fought an internal war with myself. I didn’t know how to navigate depression, what therapy was, or where to find support within my community. Growing up, I had friends who struggled with depression, and at the time, we thought self-harm was an acceptable way to cope—something that could temporarily ease the pain we carried inside. When one of my closest friends died by suicide, my own self-harming escalated, and suicidal thoughts became a constant presence in my mind.

In the aftermath of my friend’s passing, I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety at 14. Group therapy and the support of my friends and parents helped make that period a little more bearable. But as I got older, a new battle emerged—one against my own body. I became “the fat girl” in my family, and the very community that once made me feel safe became the source of my deepest shame. The relentless comments about my weight fueled my self-hatred, driving me to carve words like “stupid” and “fat” into my arms. I despised myself.

Finding the right medication came with its own challenges. At one point, I was taking nine different prescriptions, each bringing side effects that made me feel lifeless—a zombie, unable to even drive myself anywhere. The weight gain only worsened my insecurities, and to this day, remarks about my appearance still haunt me.

Then, in 2012, I was sexually assaulted. This trauma triggered yet another internal battle—one I fought both with myself and my assailant. Just days after, I recognized I needed help and confided in my criminal justice teacher, who immediately reported the assault to the police. I am forever grateful for that support, because soon after, my assailant was arrested. But the damage was already done. Having battled depression from a young age, the assault deepened my struggles, leading to a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder. The weight of it all became unbearable. In 2016, I attempted to end my life.

I will never forget that night—the overwhelming silence, the crushing loneliness, the feeling that no one could hear me. It felt like every path was blocked, and the thought of facing another day was simply too much. I swallowed over 100 pills, believing that maybe—just maybe—the pain would finally stop. I never expected to wake up again.

But I did.

When I opened my eyes in a hospital bed days later, I wasn’t sure what to feel—relief, confusion, anger, sadness. But I knew one thing: I was still here. And that moment became the start of something different. Slowly, I began to understand that my voice matters, that healing is possible, and that survival is not just about existing—it’s about reclaiming your life.

Looking back, I wish I had sought restitution from my assailant. The financial support could have provided some relief as I navigated my healing, offering a small form of justice for the immense emotional and psychological toll. But more than anything, I’ve learned that justice is not just about what’s taken—it's about what we rebuild.

I am forever grateful for the friends who stood by me and for my parents, who never gave up on me. If you or someone you love has been impacted by sexual assault, mental illness, or domestic violence, please know this: You are not alone. SAMA is here to offer support, build community, and remind you that your story matters. Healing is possible, and together, we can make a difference.

You matter. And there is always a way forward.