My name is Robert Lonergan. Well, my father's name S Robert Lonergan with a \\"James\\" sandwiched somewhere in the middle. I, however, am Aden, coming from a city my father grew up in; It's a small port town in Yemen where the air is fresh and cool, the smell of the sea carried through by airstreams in and around the sprawling bazaars and shops. I have never visited that fateful town, but still, I feel a strong connection... one wherein I feel the breeze, the sand, and the salt of the ocean if I only try hard enough. Perhaps we are linked so strongly by name. in this world, there are about as many new iPhones as thee are ways to spell, \\"Aiden, Adan, Aidan, and Adyn,\\" none of which are mine. My life began like that, early memories involving mispronounced names at kindergarten graduation, Lonergan being apparently a more difficult name then I had ever known it simply to speak. Regardless, I did go on and did accept the kindergarten diploma now boxed up, drawing the army of dust bunnies away from our stronghold downstairs, beckoning them to the garage. How trivial all of these awards and shows were would dawn on me later, but that is beside the point.\n\nIn grade 4 I began to notice changes. The teacher said that guys and girls become good friends and then do a thing called, \\"marriage.\\" Now I wasn't sure what that was but it sure sounded like fun! At least, it did for a bit. I asked everyone I knew what marriage was, especially my most trusted adult in coach Samuel whose name I have changed for reasons that will become obvious later. We talked and talked, sometimes a bit too long, but eventually, I would tell him something that would change my life, a realization I still have yet to fully realize. Now I didn't know, at the time, that a man in his mid-forties discussing girls with a ten-year-old boy was inappropriate, so I went on and on about the cute girls in class until I rattled off a name that shook him. \\"Cody.\\" It wasn't a girl, but a boy. I let him know and he paused solemnly for a minute before leaving me to the kickball I always chose. We didn't talk much after that. He rounded up the kids after we had gotten changed out of our gym clothes and announced to us some information that shook me, to say the least. \\"Now, listen up y'all. You know somebody who is a girl liking girls or a boy liking boys, you call 'em a faggot.\\" He made us repeat that awful word. Word spread throughout the school under the guise of innocent student talk, when in reality much darker and deep-seated hate was bubbling to the surface. This repression and shame of my bisexuality would hurt me for years to come and led to my middle school years being the worst of my life.\n\nFrom bullies to jocks, my middle school experience was so typical that I would get a lifetime ban from the Sundance film festival for the cliche writing of my life's plot. The homophobia continuously pushed my mental state further into the dirt. The combination of school and depression mixed with emotional disturbance also led me to gain OCD like some kind of sick 2-for-1 promotion of mental disorders. By the time I was 16, I had convinced my parents to let me go to therapy after telling them of my troubles, though depression had delayed that discussion about four years. Medication, though, was not enough in a town like Waxahachie where the average person had an inclination against all things rainbow. This is where I turned to Ryan. Ryan was where my friend Alex got his drugs from and I asked him for something simple - a bag of edibles, gummy bears to be exact. What I didn't know was that the first two gummies I took made me paranoid... so paranoid that I took the rest of the bag, idiotically. The edibles are ten milligrams per. The average does for a started is five. I took three hundred. I was strung out on my bed for three days, still feeling residual pulls as I took a test for AP Biology. I felt 2D, my mind racing and painting pictures from other dimensions, and I specifically recall the ability to see in the first dimension and cars racing around me, everything feeling so connected. I called 911 after feeling pain and that godsend operator thankfully didn't notify police of my little stasis. They left and my incredible parents helped me in feeling up to snuff. We talked for a while about everything and eventually, things were back to usual.\n\nIt was then, cotton-mouthed in my bed and hot as a rock in the desert that I realized I needed a change. This, coupled with a recently ordered pride flag, convinced me to come out to my friends. What I hadn't realized is that these things change; friends accepted me with open arms and we are stronger now for it.\n\nIf anyone comes across my story, know that escape is not the answer. Be involved, because this life is the one chance you get. Every obstacle in life is like a puzzle, one which must be solved to see the bigger picture to take a side; drugs, legal or illegal, only serve to change the pieces.\n

As i said be fore i was a skinny little runt in middle school. I struggled with weight loss though i ate like a motherfucker. This is part of why my child hood was ass. I ate the good stuff never icky crap. Though i would end up at the fucking quacks and this dummy said that i had to eat junk food. At the time i said fuck you to the quack and fought with my mom until i started weight lifting and contortunry (stretching). Then i actually gained weight. It was not the fucking food. Cause i ate properly. When i was in high school i didnt get back talked and high school was less ass that middle and elementry school. I alway had this problem because just like my ptsd it was my fucked up early childhood.

Well I feel annoyed because I have to go to this very annoying little appointment with a dietician. Well it's annoying because I was an under weight skinny little bugger when I was a kid. My parents nor myself starved me. I ate like a pig and would still lose it. Very annoying. When I was 14 I was runt in the fucking school. I call the teenage me the mini me. Lol. I have gained some weight but now I am returning to the runt or the mini me. Which I don't like. So I have annoy my self with these fucking appointments.

I feel confused... I am trying think of how to approach an adiobiolography for the simple fact that I want to show that people with ptsd or not bad people. I don't want to talk about my childhood before age 13 because my child hood god bless my parents my child hood was ass. From the time I was born to the time I was 13. Why do you before my thirteenth birth was ass because one I have tibetan genes and the catholic school system hated that especially after 9/11. That I had ptsd. When I was 13 I realized that I might be a genius and found my true interests, mountaineering, art, photography, writing, languages and mental health. This biography will flip flop to the present, dream and past.

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.

“I don't like standing near the edge of a platform when an express train is passing through. I like to stand back and, if possible, get a pillar between me and the train...A second's action would end everything. A few drops of desperation.” Winston Churchill's words show that even the greatest people can be afflicted by depression. Mental illness is not new. Yet, we so often cling to the feeble hope, “Mental illness will never be a problem for me. I'm happy. I have a good life. I have no reason to feel anything out of the ordinary.” Unfortunately, we are proved wrong more often than right. I myself, at 8 years old, found myself feeling that something was wrong with me, but I saw the detrimental effects of my older sister's depression, and promised myself that I would never go down the same path that she did. I promised myself that I was stronger. I promised myself that I was safe. I was faced with the haunting danger of mental illness the day I received the call that my sister was being taken to the hospital. As a child, with all my life ahead of me, I wondered why anyone would want to take their own life. Was there not an inherent desire within each human being to stay alive? What, then, was wrong with my sister? When would she return? Would she ever return? I fell into depression intermingled with denial and anger. I despised myself for breaking the promise I had made. Was I really that weak? I wrote in journals, my only escape being in words that I scribbled in pages and pages of desperate paragraphs, trying to convince myself that I was merely fabricating things as a result of the trauma I'd experienced recently. Yet, at 11 years old, I had already written the words that I wanted to be spoken at my funeral. When I entered 3rd grade, my teachers would ask my what was wrong, and I would smile and respond that nothing was wrong, nothing at all. Yet when at home, I would often burst into tears for no reason. I would pull out my hair. I would stay isolated more often than not. I had no friends because I seemed distant and hostile to anyone who met me. I was a wreck, and yet I was determined to maintain a strong composure. After all, it was all in my head, right? Despite my best attempts, exhaustion became a state of existence. I couldn't focus, I couldn't find inspiration, and yet the memories of my mother's quiet weeping at night reminded me that I could not, would not, ever do anything to bring my parents any pain, even if it meant I shouldered more than I could carry. I believed I could shoulder everything. It was like dragging a mountain with me out of bed, to school, and back home. On the outside, I was the talented girl who lived a perfect life in a wealthy family. On the inside, I was barely holding myself together. Then came high school, the rampaging rhino that knocked the wind out of me and tested how very thin I could stretch. Freshman year crawled by, and my grades were less than impressive. Sophomore year arrived and I no longer cared. I was failing all my classes. All I cared about was keeping myself alive. I had found my limit, despite my attempts to stay strong. I wrote my will. I tried to find out which medications would be most likely to kill me. I mentally said goodbye to the people I loved. I wondered if anyone would ever forgive me. I had a meeting with my counselor, perhaps coincidentally, on the morning of the day I intended to die. I was unable to keep myself stoic, and she learned of my plan soon enough. I was sent to the hospital. I wasn't sure what to feel; relief? Anger? I wondered why they wouldn't let me do as I pleased with my life. Was it really too hard for me to accept, in my darkest moments, that there were people who truly loved me? My return home about a week later proved to me that more people had missed me than I had expected. I lived in an almost dream-like state, unable to grasp the reality that I still stood, very much alive, before the very people I'd said my goodbyes to. Had I finally found hope? How long would it last? The next few months were not exactly easy. There was no instant relief, or a magical morning on which I woke up feeling truly confident with my place in the world. The journey has been constant, and continues to this day. I cherish my life, and my greatest wish is to inspire those who have lost all hope; those who are fallen, like I was, into a state of such constant despair that they do not see the point of taking one more step. I hope to prove that a single step is all it takes, and while hopelessness is very real, it cannot control us forever, because in the end we are stronger than the chains that may try to hold us down.

My (Not So) Pointless Shenanigans When I was four years old, on Christmas Day, our family of three went outside and looked at the stars. “I know we don't have much right now,” my dad told my sister and me, “but at least we have each other.” You might be imagining a child living in poverty, correct? The answer is more depressing. My biological mother had stripped everything from the house that I had grown up in. Everything from the electrical outlets to some of my dad's belongings. She took everything except a flimsy lawn chair and a large oak television set. I hope this paints the picture of what Tawni is like. This is what I had to live with and all I had to look forward to every time I saw my mother. Unfortunately, this is only a brief description of her entire persona, as well as the trials and tribulations I went through because of it. My mother was, and always will be, an alcoholic. I used to wonder why, but these days I have begun to stop caring. She has always been too self-centered to even consider being compassionate towards others. There was not a single moment where I have known my mother to be actually sober. She was either intoxicated or starting to drink. When I say intoxicated, I don't mean to say she was the type of person that got hilarious or overly clingy; she was an extremely violent drunk. As a four-year-old, I did not understand why she was so mean. I did, however, piece together that I didn't want my little sister to see our mother, as she was only two or three at the time. So if Tawni was intoxicated while we were at her house, I would tell Haileigh to go play while Tawni used all that negative energy on me. To this day, I still don't know why I did that or how a four-year-old is capable of that sort of protection, but I am glad for it. I have always been the type of person that would rather have pain inflicted on me than on others, even if it is well deserved. I don't know how to put this poetically, but the truth is my mother forced me to tell lies to the police about my father. You may be wondering what types of lies they were; to put it simply, she wanted me to tell lies of my father sexually assaulting me at the age of just four. If I didn't do so, she convinced me that she would hurt my sister who I would do my best to protect at all costs. To this day, my dad and I still have a strange relationship from this. He looks at me differently for this. It took a long time for him to admit he loves me after this. Tawni didn't care about my feelings though. I was just a pawn in her chess game. This went on for a total of six years, all filled with material that could damage anyone's mental health and/or self-confidence, until the day my dad came and saved my sister and me from her house. I won't go too much into detail of this night, because it is highly traumatizing for me to even talk about. I will say that I was not physically harmed, nor was my sister. However, the mental scarring still lingers. Leaving the constant reminder of what had transpired that day. You would probably expect a child like this to become angry, bitter, or even exhibit sociopathic tendencies. Well… that's not reality, actually. Yes, I did develop PTSD from the experience, but I made an internal promise a long time ago: that I would try to love everybody, help people any way I can, or even just give a compliment on something different I notice about them. Because, even though I cannot be given love, that does not mean people should be neglected of such simple luxuries. After what I went through, I understand some people may go through difficult experiences as well, so a compliment could go a long way. Looking back to the comment on my PTSD, I have turned to writing to cope with my experience. I channel my experiences through the characters I create. It helps me understand situations that my mind can't process. I also try to write about taboo subjects like abuse and negligence because people often don't talk about those topics. But, it does give people a feeling of sympathy, as if being told they are not alone. The reason I do all this, even though my writing is often emotionally harmful to me, is that when I read about someone who has an alcoholic mother, I felt someone had my back. If I can gift that affection to other people, I feel accomplished. There are both pros and cons to this life. What I mean by there are good things, amazingly beautiful things in fact. But there is also bound to be terrible, disgusting, things. In other words, when life will give you a calming peacefulness, expect things to get outrageous from time to time. Instead of denying the god-awful occurrences that are inevitable to happen, we should learn to accept them. The bad things, I believe, were made to make us appreciate the good things in this life. How does this apply to my story of resilience? The answer is simple: I may have been through something awful, but I still have a loving family to be thankful for.