"My heart broke for you."

I was 19 years old, and I had completely broken down. Again. The world around me that I thought I knew was crumbling to pieces. 

"You're worthless. You're good for nothing. You're worthless." 

These words rang over and over through my empty mind. 

I had just begun my third semester in college, and in every class, I found myself writing my suicide letter. The date would be the anniversary of my dad's suicide. Halloween. Might as well make it dramatic. 

The week before Halloween, I showed a therapist my letter. I convinced him that I wasn't serious. That it was all a joke.

He let me walk out in this state. 

When Halloween came, I got drunk. I ran up this street, with no shoes, no jacket, no dignity. Three cops stopped and asked me what I was doing, if I'd come off my meds, if I needed to go to the hospital. I walked away. 

A woman got out of her car and asked me if I was all right, asked if I wanted food. I ran away. I was shaking, sweating, biting back my last tears. In my mind, I wasn't allowed to cry. This was what I deserved. 

I started to walk out in front of a car. 

The car came to a stop, and someone got out. It was the same lady from before. She rushed out of the car, threw her jacket on me, and held me as a cried. 

She said, "When I saw you, my heart broke for you." 

She gave me new life. 

She gave me a seed of hope to plant. 

Today, I am 22 years old. After various hospital stays, various treatments, I am still on the path to recovery.

To this very day, I still hold her words close to my heart. Every time I dream about ending the suffering I endure every day, I envision that angel who saved me. 

I remember her holding me as I cried. 

I remember how truly promising life can be even when the room is dim.
 

It will not define me.

I'm a singer, actress and artist with a passion for theater. I majored in Musical Theater for 3 semesters, all while minoring in Studio Art, being an Honors student, maintaining a 4.0 GPA, and earning a reputation as the most hardworking and respectful student in my class. I was sure I had found my calling in life. 

Imagine my shock when, after confidently performing at Evaluation, I was discreetly taken to my professor's office and told that I didn't pass, and I wouldn't be allowed to continue my major. 

Because of my anxiety issues. 

Because of the bites on my arms from panic attacks. 

Because they thought I was too damaged-goods to survive in the industry. 

Well guess what? 

I just performed in Hamlet, and an expert authority on Shakespeare in the audience said it was, "The best college production of [ANYTHING they] had ever seen," and called it "professional." 

Oh, and don't get get me started on the number of famous actors who suffer every day from anxiety and mental disorder and still kick ass. 

So, yes, as long as I live I will never forget the moment my professor I looked up to told me I couldn't do it. Yes, it will haunt me for years to come.

But with God as my witness, it will not define me.

"You will never be able to make good decisions on your own."

When I was younger, my dad used to always ask me, "Why do you always make bad choices?" As I got older, it turned into, "You will never be able to make good decisions on your own." 

In early adulthood, he stopped saying anything when I made mistakes. He would just give me a look and walk away. 

Now as an adult with two children of my own whose father walked away, my dad tells me quite often how proud he is of me. He frequently reminds me that I'm doing a wonderful job with the boys, and he has a fantastic relationship with them both. 

But as close as my dad and I are now, I can still hear him tell me how I'll never do anything good, or that I can't make decisions for myself. 

Every decision I make, big or small, feels like life or death to me. I'm constantly calling and asking my dad what I should do, and he'll talk with me until I decide. He's a phenomenal father and grandfather, but I wish had been more understanding and less judgmental when I was growing up. 
 

"She sounds dumb anyway."

I moved to the USA from Costa Rica when I was 10 years old. English was not my first language, but I was doing pretty well. 

In 8th grade when I was 14, my school went on a trip to saint Augustine, FL. Everyone decided to get henna tattoos, but I didn't have enough money for one.

When one of the chaperones asked why I wasn't getting one, I said, "I just don't want a TA TU." (I mispronounced it because of my accent.) She laughed and told me to just call it a tat. I tried to say it that way, and then I told her that I thought that made me sound dumb. 

As I walked away she turned to her son and said, "She sounds dumb anyway." They started laughing. 

I turned around and told them that they weren't being nice, but they didn't care. They just kept laughing at the 14 year old girl who had an accent.
 

"You're the winning team."

I could never commit to school. I've always been very anxious and weird, and of course that's blood in the water for the horrific nightmare sharks that are children. 

The one thing I actually liked doing was writing, because I could express myself without feeling overwhelmingly self-conscious. 

A teacher that I genuinely liked and respected, who I think came to know me exclusively through the essays I turned in, once told me, "You're the winning team. People root for you." 

I don't necessarily think there's anyone screaming my name from the bleachers, but for one meaningful second, I felt like maybe things would be okay.
 

"What kind of a retarded freak are you?"

My birthday is in September, so I was just 11 years old when I started 7th grade. My Spanish teacher was going over the lesson, and I kept mispronouncing several words. She finally exploded at me in front of the class and said, "What kind of a retarded freak are you?" 

I turned bright red while more than 60 eyes zeroed in on my agony. 

Later that day, I went home and just cried. Cried and cried. My parents were the type that felt the teacher could do no wrong. It was the first time in my life someone other than family had made me feel so worthless and useless. 

Somehow, I made it through 7th grade and the Spanish language well enough to become fluent in it. 

Years later, I became a New York City teacher. I spent about 30% of my time as a teacher speaking Spanish with students, most of whom were from Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic. 

In my last year teaching before I retired, a student asked me why I became a teacher. It was at that very moment I actually realized why. 

I never wanted another child to be publicly humiliated by a teacher like I was by my 7th grade Spanish teacher.
 

Sophomore Star

I have always loved performing, so I was thrilled when I was cast in a leading role in my high school's musical as a sophomore. 

After an awesome opening night, a boy who had graduated the year before (and who had been the lead in previous musicals) approached me backstage. 

He said, "I was so impressed with your performance! I'm awarding you the Sophomore Star!"  

He said that it was a secret, word-of-mouth honor given by the musical theater alumni to the underclassmen they knew would go on to do great things. He had received the award as a sophomore, and so it was his prerogative to pass it on when and to whom he saw fit. 

I think even at the time I knew that he was making this up, but I didn't care. It was so kind of him to find such a special way to make me feel important.

Even now, as an adult, when I am nervous before a presentation at work, I remind myself that I am the Sophomore Star, and that I will do great things.

"Well that was...powerful."

I've always loved to sing. Music has always been my greatest passion. It all started when I was 4, singing in pageants and at family get-togethers. 

So naturally when I got to high school, I joined the chorus. I was so excited to learn and to have a whole period dedicated to music! I worked so hard and listened to everything my teacher said. I looked up to her. 

Then one day we were singing a piece that included a solo. I practiced my audition for weeks, and when the day came I stood up in front of the whole class and sang my heart out. I was so proud when I was I done, and I thought I had done so well. 

Then my teacher looked at me and said, "Well that was...powerful." in a judgmental tone that sounded like, "Well you should be embarrassed."

After that I never tried for a solo again.

Looking back, I see now that as much as looked up to that teacher, she wasn't a very nice person. She played favorites and gave her favorite students all the solos and extra attention.

I still practice at home, and my dream will always be to sing professionally, but I can't sing in front of anyone anymore. Even my husband, who is so supportive. And my daughter, who has the same passion for music that I had. I get told all the time that I have a beautiful voice and that I should be famous and I always smile politely and take the compliment. 

But in the back of my mind I will never feel good enough to do anything with my talents because of what one person, who was supposed to be a mentor to me, said.
 

"Oh well."

My therapist was driving me home after a group session, and there was something I still wanted to get off my chest.

We went to the park and I tried to tell her what I was feeling. It was something I felt for a long time and I never knew how to say it, so I just let it out.
I told her, "Sometimes I just feel stupid, like everything that's easy for everyone else is hard for me. It's like I don't understand the simplest of things and like I'll never catch up with everyone. I want to be smart."

She just looked at me and said, "Oh well."

I told her to take me home. I quit therapy shortly after.
 

"You sound like a dying cat."

In fifth grade, I started taking choir class. On the first day, our teacher taught us how to sing high notes. I was really excited to be learning this, because I loved singing and had never taken formal lessons, and my singing voice was naturally lower and I always wanted to learn how to sing higher. 

After a few weeks of choir, I was so excited to share my improving singing skills with my friends. During one of our regular 5th grade academic classes, I gathered a bunch of friends in the back of the classroom at our cubbies to show them what I had learned in choir. 

All of a sudden, our teacher yelled to the back of the classroom in an irritated tone, "Whoever is making that horrible noise, please stop! You sound like a dying cat!"

It was clear from her tone that she thought that whoever was making the noise was doing it to be annoying and irritating.

I stopped taking choir after 5th grade, and have never taken the signing lessons that I had always wanted.

Writing this now is actually really helpful for me. Now after all these years, I might actually pursue singing lessons.