The Covid-19 pandemic that has swept through America has been quite a confusing experience, filled with a series of mixed emotions. It has been a period of time where I've been able to truly reflect on myself and my life— not because I never had the time, but rather because of everyone else's reactions to total isolation compared to my own. I am fortunate enough to say that my experience with this pandemic has been relatively okay, especially in terms of my education, compared to the experiences of those who I've talked to. For those that I know, their plight has not revolved around the virus going about, but rather the education system and its response to the national disaster. They are crushed under the weight of ginormous assignments with cutthroat deadlines; drowning in stormy seas of unusually terrible grades, circulating disappointment from their families and hardships at home, and merciless teachers who— despite their roles as guides for their students' futures— sneer at them for not being able to “do their jobs.” Their mental health withers by the mere second. Much of these people are mentally disabled. They'd rather be dead than continue their education under these circumstances. Oftentimes I find myself wishing to switch places with them, just to give them a bit of peace. Unlike my disabled peers, my plight comes from coping with the effects of this world's ableism while being in the pandemic. I am autistic. I was unaware of this fact for most of my life, and I did not get an official diagnosis until earlier this school year. I grew up in a neighborhood that had an extremely poor reception of my existence, and so I was ostracized, undermined and bullied by most of my classmates as well as my teachers. With that being said, I had become more comfortable within the walls of my own home rather than the outdoors where many children played. I never understood why the world seemed to be so against me, I had simply thought I was born unlucky. And so the norm for me became sitting alone on my bed, chatting with online friends who shared similar hardships of my own, completing my daily tasks, and then going to sleep. Every day was the same, and yet I never complained despite how obsolete my living situation was. I thought it was better than daring to ever step outside the lines where I was guaranteed safety. I never felt that lonely until the pandemic came around the corner in March, and everyone was on the internet complaining about a living situation they were forced into— one that I had long grown accustomed to since I was a little kid. It wasn't until then that I realized just how much of the lived experience had been taken away from me. Yet I still didn't understand why it was all happening, and I continued to not understand until I got my diagnosis in October. It was later that month that I was given the grace of being able to finally meet some of my online friends, who were either autistic as well or simply just accepting. It felt like I was able to breathe in fresh air for the first time I had been alive. I didn't feel chained to a specific way that I should act. I could move my limbs however I desired, I could speak in a way that was authentic to me, I could rest my eyes wherever was comfortable without being reminded of social “rules.” I was free to stim in any way my mind and body guided me to. I was free. For the first time in my life I felt free, and I mourned heavily that night when I had to go back to my daily life, confined to the bars of my room where I felt like I'd rot away. I was given a smidgen of freedom before being locked away again. My heart continues to yearn for just another taste, under the forced isolation and quarantine from the plaguing virus.

I made mistakes and bad choices. I made poor decisions in life. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and reverse my actions. I have been stubborn, selfish, hard-headed, indecisive. I took so many risks without considering the risks at all. I love too much and fall so hard. I do my best at work and get so little in return. I trust so much and get hurt too often. I enjoy the company of others and the comfort of solitude. I make my friends smile and laugh yet I can't even make myself happy. I can give hard-core advice but I can't even solve my own dilemmas. I am a living irony. My world is my stage. And it seems like everyone's enjoying the show. Except me. Maybe in my next lifetime, I'll be the woman that I dreamed to be. Maybe I'll find closure to all the hanging questions in my head. Maybe. For now, I'll just live in irony.

I gained a lot of weight during the 3 month holiday before I started high school. While my old classmates had shed their baby fat, I had gotten bigger. I never noticed until an uncle remarked that I was bigger. He laughed, pinched my cheeks, then called me ‘fatso.' That made me feel small, as ironic as that may sound. I began to dread his visits to our house, because he always made it a point to call me fatso. I mean, every time I answered the intercom he would begin by saying, “Hello fatso.” You can imagine what such statements did to a teenager's esteem. It didn't make it any better that my mother would sometimes call me fat when she was angry. Fat stopped being an adjective, it became my identity. I reached college with the conviction that I was still single because I was too big for any guy to want to date me. To my surprise, I found myself the recipient of the attention of a couple of guys at school. I convinced myself that they were only showing interest in me because they wanted to get to my hot friend. There was no way any guy would want to get with a fat girl. I met Todd through my roommate Clara and we hit it off instantly. Our friendship was budding and everything was going on well until the day he told me he told me I was beautiful. I looked him straight in the eye and bluntly told him I was fat. He tried to reassure me that size didn't change the fact that I was beautiful, but I of course didn't believe him and told him to leave my room. He tried to see me several times after that day, but I was cold to him. I told him I didn't need people who lied to me and would prefer to not be friends with him. He eventually stopped coming at all. One day, I was with Clara when we started talking about some beautiful dresses a friend had posted on my status. Out of nowhere, I burst into tears. When asked why I was crying I told her it was because I was too big to fit in any of the dresses. She tried to tell me otherwise, but I did not listen. I don't know why it happened on that day, but all my past hurts and jabs at my size came to my mind. I broke down and cried all the tears I had never shed. I was hurting, and had been hurting for a very long time. As I was sobbing, Clara came and sat before me. She took my hand and told me words I was never to forget. “Your perception of yourself is the only one that matters. Your uncle may have called you names, but it has always been up to you to take it to heart or not. People will always talk, that's why they have mouths. The more you bring yourself down, the more others will do the same. I can't keep telling you that you are fine the way you are, and neither will the guys around you. The sooner you accept yourself, the sooner happiness will find you.” She left me with those words. Her words struck a nerve. She had called me out on my insecurities, but she had spoken the truth. All of a sudden I felt angry at myself. All these years I had lived my life holding on to hurt, succeeding only in hurting myself more. I was responsible for a heinous crime. I was guilty of body shaming, the victim being me. It hit me then that the reason I never dated in my younger years was because I was at a girl's school, with strict parents. I had nowhere to meet guys! Yes I sometimes had difficulties finding jeans that fit, but size 14 jeans fit just fine. It was like my eyes were opened that day. I didn't have super confidence all of a sudden; it took some weeks, but eventually I became confident in my own skin. I changed my mentality and started seeing myself for who I was, not who people thought I was. I went to Todd, and we had a long talk. He forgave me for my outburst, and we started working on our friendship. When my uncle visited, I told him body shaming was disgusting and not fitting a man of his calibre. He was shocked to say the least. He stopped calling me fatso that day. There is so much I am grateful in my life, my friend Clara being top of the list. She opened my eyes to what was always there. She made me realise I needed to accept myself as I was. As for me not having a boyfriend, I realised I had to love myself before anyone else could love me. I knew then when the time was right, I would connect with someone on that level and it would just make sense for us to be together. I finally found myself, and the happiness that only comes from being comfortable with oneself.

Today started off really well. I went on a date with a nice guy and we had a really good time. He acts like he wants to go on a third date and when I go home I break down. Why? I realized I forgot to take one of my anxiety pills and my anxiety rocketed. This made me want to crawl up into a ball in my bed and did for a little but I forced myself to get out and do some writing. Writing usually gives me some kind of perspective but I'm having a hard time today. I feel like I'm broken and that no one could possibly be want to be with someone like that. I know I have to keep fighting and that is the most important thing to do but I'm so tired of having to do that every day. And when I think that I will have to make this effort for the rest of my life it makes me feel really overwhelmed. I wish God didn't choose this life for me but I'm sure there was a reason for it. I just haven't figured it out yet.

I started talking to a guy yesterday that really impacted me. I know nothing will probablly come of it because of the distance but the conversation we had really resonated with me. Because he said he was a therapist, I immediately felt safe and calm during our text messages. We revealed a lot to each other, things that we don't usually share with just anyone. I discussed my struggles with my mental illneses and he understood and I felt like he really cared. Sometimes that makes all the difference in the world: finding someone that really truly understands and doesn't try to make it better; he just listens and acknowledges that dealing with all of these obstacles are very difficult. We have a lot of other similarites in common but him accepting me and all of my scars means more to me than I can put into words. I don't feel broken when I talk to him. I just feel like a normal person that sometimes has to work a little harder to find life enjoyable. I know we just met and you can call me crazy but he's already positively infliuenced me.

Looking at the mirror, I see myself with a sense of peace today. Devoid of any makeup or accessory, late at night, my reflection smiles back at me. Sometimes it is a smile of joy and victory, sometimes of heart-wrenching sadness. But these is always an odd sort of comfort, like the feeling of slipping into your favorite pair of worn out pajamas. Or the feeling of coming back home after a long, tiring day. This solace was earned, not gifted. I was born as a confident and happy child. Never really caring about my looks, I do not remember ever worrying about how people saw me. My teenage years were not so carefree, however. They were tainted by remarks about how my ugly self did not deserve any company, let alone sympathy. I looked at the mirror then too, but with feelings of contempt and despair. My confidence hit rock-bottom. I did things to myself I am not proud of. I have always had long hair, now I hid my face behind it. Walking through the school corridors, I hung my head low. I had few friends; people distanced themselves from me as if I carried an infectious disease. It can take years of contemplation to make a change happen, but in hindsight you can always find a turning point that acted as the catalyst. My turning point came in the form of a random woman in a random convenience store. She kept stealing glances at me, making me extremely conscious of my appearance. Just when I could no longer bear the scrutiny and was about to bolt, she walked over to me and said in broken English, “You're very pretty.” I stared at her, dumbfounded. What was this strange woman saying? My face was bare; my hair, which I consider my best physical feature, was tied in a bun. She looked over me once again, then said in a decisive tone, “Yes, very beautiful.” She waited a few seconds for me to make a reaction, during which I barely managed to gather my wits and mumbled a faint thank you. Then she left, leaving me extremely confused among aisles of snacks and scattered thoughts. I believe in miracles, I am forced to believe in them since that incident. Now whether the miracle came to me or I made it happen was another question. I have reasons to think that the whole thing was a figment of my imagination. My brain could have simply conjured this up to pull myself out of the pathetic state I was in. I do not remember a thing about the woman; her face, her clothes, her voice, nothing. Just the words. If you are thinking I suddenly discovered my hidden beauty, got a wardrobe upgrade and showed the world what a catch I was, then I apologize for being the cause of disappointment, but no such thing happened. I did not feel particularly beautiful after that encounter, but it did eventually bring clarity to my thoughts. For one, there was no great change in my appearance that could have suddenly sparked such hatred among my peers. Sure, my body was changing thanks to puberty, but my face was essentially the same as it was before I was bullied. Thinking hard, I traced back to the inception of my suffering: a certain comment from a mean classmate who was always jealous of me for some unfathomable reason. Historically speaking, being the subject of envy has never worked out in my favor. At that time, the consequences of a single snide remark were two whole years of self-hate and being treated like an outcast. It took me months to come to terms with the fact that the harassment had nothing to do with the way I looked. More than a year later, I finally learned to fight back and recovered my lost self-confidence. I did nothing to change my appearance. This experience has greatly shaped the way I feel about beauty as an adult. In my 22 years of existence I have been fortunate enough to live in three different countries and meet countless beautiful people, as well as a few ugly ones. Before you jump the gun, let me clarify that beauty, or the lack of it, does not simply refer to the so-called golden ratio or the symmetry of a person's face. At least not in my dictionary. To me, the most beautiful person in the world would be empathetic. Confident, yet not arrogant. Bold, yet not disrespectful. Physically, well, there is no single way to be beautiful. There is no denying the fact that the first thing you see in a person is his/her face. It is out there for the world to see, and it is convenient to judge thanks to the many beauty standards society has imposed upon us. The problem arises when we take the easy way and try to figure out a person's character based on his/her looks. Stop. Because this is where you should stop. Not only are you putting unfair expectations on that person, but you are also making a fool out of yourself. I now listen to the people worthy of my love and admiration to evaluate my beauty. Most importantly, I listen to myself. Do I think I am beautiful? Physically, I consider myself just normal, and I love it. But truly? I am on my way there, though I still have a long way to go.

Children yelling and racing through the yard. The smell of fresh cut grass. Teenagers singing happy birthday and cutting the cake. A girl approaches my perch on one of the picnic tables. “Hey Joslin, do you want me to pop that big fat zit on your nose? After all, you wouldn't want to be seen in public with that now would you?” The party that seemed fun and playful dissolves from my eyes, and all I can see is the people watching me be humiliated and staying silent. The brand of the sun turns into a brilliant red dye of embarrassment covering my face. I stand up and walk inside. The stunned silence fades and the party returns to full volume. I was nine years old when it first appeared. I greeted the day and shuffled into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Bright red splotches littered my face, like the trash beside the road before community clean up. I run to my mother, my predicament obvious. She tells me acne is normal, everyone gets it. The next several months though, it becomes more than a common cold, but rather a fever, and then a cancerous tumor spreading across my body. My face begins to swell up and turn red and puffy on a daily basis. I look in the mirror and all I see is blow fish cheeks, and they never deflate. I'm twelve years old. My parents finally have to accept that this isn't just acne, but puberty on steroids. We go to the doctor. Twelve bottles of topical creams, pill bottles, and a dairy free diet later, they tell me I'll get better. But the pockets of pus won't leave when the radiation of medication hits them. The first day of high school comes, and I'm embarrassed to leave the car. My face is just as puffy as before, only now, scars litter the battlefield where my clear face cells once fought and sacrificed their lives over the years. I slathered cover up all over my face hoping no one could tell the truth. Inevitably though, someone would see through the camouflage and blurt out, “What's wrong with your face?” As the stresses of trying to make new friends, selling my horse, my siblings leaving for college, and my parents' separation built up, my face released it through acne, not yoga. In a culture where value is calculated based on appearance, my stocks were at the level of the Great Depression. On the plus side, figuring out who my true friends were was easy. Compared to other kids who struggled with frenemies; I had only to find people who were willing to sit by me. My Sophomore year, however, the grin-and-bear-it method began to dissolve. I walked by a flyer advertising for Cheerleading tryouts. As a Freshman I had seen the same exact flyer Mrs. Dvorak recycled year after year. I'd let my mind take a brief flight of fancy of what it would be like to be a Cheerleader. Yet the poster said applicants were partially judged on appearance, and with a face that had only marginally improved since I was 12 years old, that placed me firmly out of the running in my mind. As a fifteen year old girl though, I was ready to challenge what society dictated was appropriate for someone who looked like me. I tried out. And that Friday, teeth chattering and knees knocking, I scurried out into the parking lot. I expected the opening words to be “I'm sorry, however…”, but instead they were “Congratulations!” I worked as hard as I could to be the best cheerleader because I felt I had to prove I was worthy of the honor. I continued to hide my face when I washed my hands in front of the mirror, but I also chose to put a hold on the cover up. After all, it was my face. If I didn't care, who had the right to? Slowly I became friends with the other cheerleaders. Girls whose faces were as smooth as models. For them an acne problem was one zit in a whole month. I felt sure that they secretly found me ugly. Finally I asked one of the girls why they were friends with me. They told me that after years of people seeking their friendship solely for their physical attraction, friendship felt tainted. No one appreciated them as a friend, but rather only as a status symbol to be seen with in school. My friendship though, was more about personality than appearance. Acne forced me to find intrinsic value within myself. I wasn't traditionally beautiful, so I cultivated my humor and intelligence. Without experiencing this dermatological condition I might never have gone beyond my surface stock market value to polish my personality. Acne helped me build a self esteem that would last longer than a smooth complexion because it was based on my intrinsic worth and uniqueness, not what I looked like as a person. Some days I still struggle to look eye to eye with my reflection, and whenever someone mentions my acne, even as a compliment, I feel hurt. I never want people to see me as an object to admire or be disgusted with. I am a person with character who may suffer from acne, but I do not let it define me. I am a person with dreams and goals who twice a day washes my face with special medications.

My mind is still a battlefield. The sides? Self-acceptance and self-hatred. The soldiers? Thoughts of the challenges I've overcome and thoughts of burying myself again in restrictions. The victor? It depends on the day. Anorexia, upon reflection, was inevitable. It took root when I was 8 years old and crying in bed because I thought I was fat. It blossomed when I was 10 after my dad commented that the mashed potatoes I was eating contained carbs, which would make me gain weight. It permeated my mind when a boy's eyes flitted over my body and told me I had big thighs. It began to guide my daily routine until people started to compliment my appearance. Then, it took over. Anorexia was never a voice in my head; it was more of a silent dictator. It rewarded me with an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction when my aunt compared me to a Barbie doll or my ex-boyfriend proudly exclaimed that I had the physique of a mannequin. It punished me when I disobeyed its orders. Even when I considered it my closest friend, I knew that it ruled me. I tried to "give it to God" so many times, but I was slowly destroying the body that He had given me. I stopped worshipping God because I had sold my soul to the scale. 130. 125. 120. High school graduation. 115.110. Holidays. 115. Compulsive exercise and starvation. 110. My mother's death. 105. Binges. Anxiety. Fear. Emptiness. Nothing. No emotion, no expression, nothing but the feeble cries of a body that was dying. I was dying, and I loved it. Here's the thing about Barbie dolls and mannequins though: they're incredibly fragile. And, like them, my body began to break from the blows anorexia had dealt it. My binges became frequent and aggressive. My body was trying so desperately to save itself that I felt compelled to eat anything in sight. Eating entire jars of nut butter or pints of ice cream became a regular, dreaded part of my daily routine. Even when I tried to throw up after finishing these monster meals, my body said "Hell no." I gained fat, muscle, more fear, more anxiety, and more support as I told more and more people about the demon that had dominated my life since I was 8 years old. Then, a miracle: my body began to regenerate. I slept for 10 hours each night. My period came back. I reluctantly began seeing a dietitian. A therapist came soon after. And the whole time, the number on the scale rose. Starvation didn't work anymore. I was a different shape physically, but my hatred remained unchanged. I hated myself through the pounds I lost, and I hated myself through the pounds I gained. And here I am, finally physically well and mentally sound, but still battling this mass of hatred in my chest. Do I hate myself? Maybe I can't decide where the hatred should really go. I could direct it toward my mom, but she only wanted to feel more beautiful. She didn't know that the medicine she took after undergoing cosmetic surgery would ultimately kill her. I could use the hatred to attack the society that pressured both of us to strive towards unattainable standards, but that wouldn't bring me real relief. I could talk through the hatred objectively with a therapist over thousands of appointments, but that wouldn't make it dissipate. I could take to social media in search of wisdom to diffuse the hatred, but the words of comfort bounce right off. So my immediate impulse is to internalize the hatred, aiming it inward towards myself. Eat a little less, move a little more, because those are the instructions anorexia sometimes still whispers when self-acceptance seems to be losing the battle. Maybe skip a meal. Or a day. A few days. Never eat again. If I shrank physically, maybe my feelings would shrink too. My mind was too exhausted to dwell on emotional pain when it was fighting to feed itself. That was nice. Sometimes I miss being numb. But, as I said, my Barbie body broke. My present and future are now undeniably human. Starvation wouldn't shrink me. I would remain the same size, and the hatred would only grow. A body that doesn't cooperate is an easy target for hatred. I can't go back to that; I won't go back to that. Of course, as self-hatred and self-acceptance continue to wage war, I also have to recognize that I own the battlefield. I supply the artillery for both sides, so I can determine the outcome of the battle. I choose self-acceptance. And, so help me God, it will be victorious.

Everything in life is about us. Theres nothing, not even the smallest action, decision or thought, that we do not take selfishly. Aware of it or not, direct or indirectly, everything is always about me, me, me and me. It's constantly me. But what happens when we are not self-confidence? When we don't believe in ourselfs and I don't love me enough? Then we search for someone, someone who will give us the love and acceptance we don't give ouselfs. Someone who will make us feel good, alive for two seconds so that after he can make us drown, more and more deeply. We will ask ouselfs; what did I do wrong? why me? We are going to try to swim, get out, but the tide will be way to strong, there will be to much pain and we are gonna drown even more. It will hurt, there will be days where we just want to die and stop fighting becaouse it is easier. There will be a moment, where we will give up, we won't want to fight anymore, we will be tired. We will let all the water fill our lungs, carry us wherever it wants. Days will pass by, weeks, months..but one day, we will finally understand how it works and step by step, little by little we will start to swim. We will figure out that we first need to let all the pain in so that then we can get to know how it feels and works, so that we can fight it. Only that way we will be able to learn from it, grow strong and love ourselfs a little more every day. There will be a day, when we won't need anyone to feel loved, valued and to smile. We will be the one deciding what to do and how to do it. If there is a day, when a special someone arrives, someone who we feel like is worthy of our love, we are gonne let him in. But it is not gonna be becouse we need to feel loved, but becouse we want to share the life we have built up with that one person. It will be becouse WE want to.

My mother and my support worker got a talking and said that I use the mental health labels as a cirtch and than I should embrace who I am instead having these stupid labels that my regret school and doctors and government put on me. Well to school doctor and government.... fuck you. I am human and I am who I am. Don't like it then fuck off!!!! I got a quote from a piece of jewelry “When you look at a field of dandelions you can either see hundreds of weeds or hundreds of wish!!!” I think we need to chose wishes.

There once was a princess, in a land far away Who wasn't the youngest, she'd started going grey Her name was beautiful, though the rest of her less so Aurelia wasn't married- had never had a beau Her features weren't aweful, it was just her attitude Her face had grown sour, from being arrogant and rude Like other royal ladies, she had to wait for a prince Unfortunately, seeing her, made handsome princes wince The old king spent years trying to convince Posh princes such as John and Vince That his daughter was lovely and smelled of mints Petrified princes galloped off, yet the king took no hints The king couldn't wait to see Aurelia hitched In every town he visited, he made sure she was pitched As any young man's dreamy wife With whom they'd have a fabulous life He needed her to marry off well So he could live in luxury and dwell His old days in the castle, swimming in dough Thus he needed Aurelia to score a rich beau She was shown many a pretty polaroid Though no one seemed to fill the void The princess felt deep inside her heart Scrap that, in her every body part Despite the king's best efforts, nothing really paid off To every prince she met, she said “Do YOU know what I love? Horrible words, like ‘blast!', ‘poo', and ‘bum'” The princes ran and cried, “That's not why I've come I want a fair lady!” They stamped their feet and screamed That this mean princess Aurelia was not one they deemed A lady they'd take for tea along with their precious Mums “She looks as though she lives in the dirty slums,” One disgruntled prince yelled Want to know how Aurelia felt? Smiling, she shook her hair out over the balustrade And demanded the king arrange a date With the bum who lived out in the street She said, “That bum doesn't mind my smelly feet He doesn't care about wrinkles or grey strands He doesn't need Prim and Proper, or manicured hands This man likes me for who I am inside, Unlike those arrogant princes, for whom I have to hide My flaws and the profanities I daily use One broken fingernail and those princes would pop a fuse!” And so Aurelia married, the homeless guy next door The king was forced to move into their shack, all poor For there was a strict rule in their land A princess who doesn't accept a prince's hand From the castle, the royal family is banned A rule is a rule, no point taking a stand But for the very first time in his life He saw a smile on the bum's wife He'd never seen his daughter not look grim The light in her eyes was no longer dim! She was happy; she'd come alive Even though they now drank - not from crystal -in a dive They all lived happily ever after On tins of beans and laughter

What comes into your mind when you heard or read the word “Maturity”? Do you possess this kind of characteristic? Are you mature enough? If yes, how mature are you? These are quite few of the many questions that we might ask in the matter of maturity. For this word could mean many things. One of which is that it covers one's overall development of different aspects of personality and capacity as an individual. Through the years, we commonly perceived that the older we get, the more mature we become or it's a must. Well, sometimes this is true but oftentimes this is a common misconception. In what way? Come to think of it. For instance, you meet a 40-year-old man who still acts like he's 16; an adult in age but young at heart. Conversely, you meet a teenager who acts more than his age; a teenager with an old soul. Pretty weird right? However, we can indicate that the maturity of the two different person you've met is more likely to be a delayed and an advanced one. This just appears that maturity may or may not hit a person regardless of his/her age and time can't tell either when. Distinguishing mature ones from a diverse group people is quite difficult. It's not an easy task because we can't judge a book by its cover as per say. But, I think we can all agree to the fact that those people whom we feel to have a high level of maturity seemed to possess a breadth of life experience in dealing things with responsibility and acceptance. “Experience is the best teacher”, right? Thus, no doubt that we all have the opportunity to become more mature with more life experiences that we can obtain along the way. Still, are these opportunities can really help us to become more mature? Yes! If we were to turn them into reality by obtaining each experience along with the reflection. As we may know, reflection occurs when we tend to pause for a while and do some realizations in life and put our thoughts into careful considerations pertaining to this and that. Simply because the experience alone doesn't produces maturity. As a matter of fact, some people are still relatively immature even though they have already obtained several years of life experience; gaining different levels of educational recognition, working many jobs, dating different people, traveling the world, trying new things, and many others. How come they are? It's because they may lack reflection in obtaining those life experiences, making it significantly useless without practicing reflection simultaneously. In line with that is the saying that says, “maturity is not when we start speaking big things. It is when we start understanding small things”. I do agree to that citation because being mature means you appreciate and understand both big and small things, and if you don't understand the latter how much more the former, right? Maturity comes when one has a wider perspective in life and sees things in a larger picture. It is optimistic that it finds opportunity in every difficulty and humble enough to admit that he/she commends fault and say, “I'm sorry”. Mature and grown-up people find pleasure in waiting and believers of delayed gratification. They don't rush things out and wait for the right moment instead. Another amazing thing about maturity is that if you possesses it, you hold the trait of calmness with strength. You concede defeat, face frustrations, and accept criticisms, unpleasantness without complaining. You are tranquil enough to control your emotions and wrath within yourself. Instead, you understand first the situation, put yourself in the shoes of others and be consistently grateful. Likewise, you know how to act childish and an adult when situation force you to. Mentioned above are just few of the many characteristics of people who possess the marks of maturity. How about you? If you are to assess yourself, are you one of those mature people? Or just like me and many others out there, are you the kind of person whose level of maturity changes depending on who you are with? I am immature, so are you. We are all immature in nature, until we learn how to neglect it and embrace change in our lives. However, along of searching it, we may not always forget the essence of knowing, understanding, appreciating, respecting and loving ourselves first better more than anybody else. Lastly, embracing maturity and living life in peace with the things that we cannot change, the courage to change the things that should be changed, win or lose, the wisdom to speak words with humility, the dare to make a difference and just being ourselves are definitely the best options that we could start with or continue to. For again, maturity does not matter in the age that we carry. It's indeed a choice, the sensitivity, the manners, how we react and accept things in life. As what Mr. Edwin Louis Cole says, “Maturity comes not with age but with the acceptance of responsibility. You are only young once but immaturity can last a lifetime”.

I wasn't always so anxious around people. When I was younger, sitting still was not a problem. Being around people was no scary to me. A lot of kids had trouble sitting still, but I never understood it. I had lots of friends, too. After the incident, of course, things changed. It sucks when you don't get to make choices for yourself. When others around you always make choices for you, you really forget how to make your own. It's different though, when choice is completely out of the question; when you have no control. When he held me down and I could not scream; that wasn't a choice. When he grabbed my body and I hit me if I squirmed; there was no choice. When I cried out in my mind, but he was the only one there. No one would ever choose that for themselves. After that, the loss of choice made me lose my mind. I couldn't sit still yet I could not move. There was nothing anyone could say or do that would snap me out of the deep hole I was trapped in. I watched in horror as my brain threw itself off the cliffs of sanity and into the bottomless pits of crazed depression. I could do nothing, and I could not tell anyone. If I had, he would probably come back for me. My mind would scream for help, but no one was there and no one could be. It was all my fault, anyways, why put that on someone else? No one in the world could convince me otherwise. Or so I thought. Almost two years later I met a boy. Now, I had been with boys before, but my hidden PTSD kept me feeling on edge, and ruined my relationships. This boy felt perfect for me. He snapped me back to reality. I thought I loved him, and he told me he loved me. Only after he hit me, or he snapped at me. It was his apology. After he gave me that black eye: "I love you, Jenna." It took me too long to realize what I was in was wrong. He cheated on me, and I had to live knowing that even though he hurt me, abused me, put me down, and I let it all happen, I was not enough. When I said I was depressed before, it was nothing compared to then. Hurt twice, abused twice, touched without consent twice. It was like clockwork. So when I met another boy, I pushed him away. The men in my life always hurt me, so why should he have been any different? Except he was. This boy supported me, loved me, cared about me, and helped me. He would hold me tight when I was having a panic attack. He would soothe me when I had flashbacks. He helps me when I forget that the pain is over. He lets me steal his jackets when I need something to hug at night. He doesn't mind when my tears and runny mascara stain his shirts. He treats me with respect and loves me. I never thought it possible to find someone who pushes the pain away. I thought it was impossible to trust a man. And if you have been through this, I am writing this to you: Don't hide away. You will hurt, but there is someone there for you. Cut the negative people out of your life. Do NOT allow abuse. You are stronger than you think. So many times, I was close to ending my life. So many times, I hurt more than I could possibly imagine. Yet here I am. I am in control and I have someone who supports and loves me. There is always someone who will support and love you, even when you think it is impossible.