As May is Mental Health Awareness month, I have collaborated with @MyNumberStory to spread awareness regarding ACEs (Adverse Childhood Experiences) and childhood adversity! I am honored to share a bit of my own experience growing up in a pressured environment, and how I found art as a means of healing.  

*Trigger Warning: self-harm, divorce, emotional abuse, mental illness*

Prior to the hardships I will address, my childhood was a golden thing. I grew up next door to my cousins who served as my sisters, as I was an only child. I did well in school, was immensely social and outgoing, spent summers vacationing in the Outer Banks of North Carolina with my family religiously every August. My father and uncle coached my cousins’ and I’s softball team. Our house settled on a quaint, country 2.5 acres of land at the edge of a quiet Virginia county was a hub for love. My parents were high school sweethearts. As a young girl, I oozed with promise.  

When I turned thirteen, life was altered. My father found a new hand to hold behind my mother’s back. My mother turned to excessive drinking to cope. I turned loner. I recall nestling myself in the corner of my bedroom many nights, drowning out the monumental arguments through headphones blaring. Slamming doors. Plates being thrown in the kitchen. I recall so many evenings spent silently crying myself to sleep, desperately wondering where my loving household had gone.  

My father moved out. I was thrown into therapy to learn how to navigate my feelings regarding my parents’ divorce, and in turn, discovered underlying mental health struggles already present. I was diagnosed at fourteen with major depression, generalized anxiety disorder, and social anxiety. I tried many medications; Prozac, Paxil, Lexapro, and eventually Effexor XR (which I still take to this day). However, throughout my high school years, I found tooth and nail with my disorders, having not found a working medication until after I graduated. My grades were affected heavily, as I did not have the motivation to excel. I felt pressured regardless due to my cousins’ being in the top 10 of their class, which sadly, only left me feeling more defeated rather than being a motivator.

I visited my father every other weekend, and in turn, his new wife. When I was fifteen, they married. I cannot begin to describe the heart-wrenching effect she had on my mom and I, let alone our entire family. Without bringing up too many traumatic memories, many days and nights alike were spent conversing with police. She projected paranoid delusions on to those close around her, my father and I the main subjects. Around this time, I truly dove into struggling with self-harm. (Thankfully, I am currently three years self-harm free, and my father has escaped that toxic relationship and we both have mostly healed from what damage was caused by her.)

As my journey continued into teenage years, I served as an outlet for my mother to project her pain onto. I was struggling, she was struggling. We would bark back and forth about our turmoil to one another, harming our bond more than we realized. It was at this time I would stay closed in my room, finding comfort in creating collages, handwritten quote art, and poetry. The effect art therapy had on my growth, healing, and mental state was astronomical. It has now been over ten years since I first began that journey and strongly continue striding down that path.  

Though my story has not been fully disclosed in this text, I feel many can find my story to be particularly relatable to those currently or had dealt with divorcing parents and learning to understand one’s own neurodivergence. You are not, and never have been, alone.  

My number is a 3. Take the test to discover yours at NumberStory.org

Please follow ＠MyNumberStory and check out NumberStory.org to learn more about childhood adversity and the long-term effects of toxic stress on mental health, physical health and more.

(About the artwork: in this collage piece, I used a photograph of an abandoned sanitorium as the background, showcasing how it felt to be trapped inside of my new diagnoses of major depression and anxiety disorders as a child. The ghosts in the center represent the many personalities I felt I needed to exhibit to be accepted/understood by those around me. The ghostly woman with horns serves as a core element of my trauma; the rage, the unknown, the overwhelming emotions of comprehending my abnormal way of growing up. Lastly, the flowers in the foreground represent how on the surface things can be beautiful and healthy, the colors brightly hiding the rot beneath. The quote itself reflects that despite the emotion, working through what you are feeling is a step in the right direction towards overall healing.)