Mental health wasn't talked about in the homes I grew up in, and I don't remember school lessons covering its importance.

In college, I had my first experience with therapy and worked on forgiving my parents, both of whom I had little to no relationship with at the time.

My dad and I stopped talking when I was still in high school, because we couldn't seem to make it through a single conversation without me being shamed for moving out when I was 16 years old.

My mom and I have always been close, but she was going through a breakup while raising my younger brother and sister and getting ready to move across the state.

I resented my dad for the ways his alcoholism and narcissism drove a wedge between us, and I resented my mom for not being there when I was younger, and for not being there for me then.

My parents went through a nasty divorce when I was at the ripe age of eight years old. Contrary to most custody battles, my father was granted custody, which threw me and everyone else for a loop.

We weren't sure how my dad would pull off being our primary caregiver, and although he did his best, the struggle was clear.

As I grew and continued adding to unidentified trauma, layered with teenage angst and insecurities, I developed an eating disorder that became a close friend.

I didn't see it then, but my eating disorder was like a catch-all junk drawer. Anything I didn't know what to do with, it helped me hide. Once the drawer was full and overflowing — which didn't take long — I'd turn to a list of unhealthy behaviors to cope.

It took me three years to realize I had an eating disorder, another two to start my recovery journey — after trading one eating disorder for another — and a full year of letting go and giving in until I'd finally had enough.

More therapy and one of the biggest regrets of my life

I went to therapy a second time when I was in the middle of a toxic relationship with someone who mimicked traits similar to my father. We had just moved in together, and I knew instantly it was going to be one of the biggest mistakes and regrets of my life. It still is.

Right after the move, the Covid-19 pandemic started, and we were locked inside together every single day. I couldn't find a job because no one was hiring, so I got on unemployment for the first time and poured all my energy into finishing my memoir.

I needed an escape and a reason to have alone time, so I didn't feel so suffocated and stuck. This caused several fights but made me feel better knowing that I was at least being productive and accomplishing a goal in the middle of extreme chaos.

Soon after the pandemic started, I lost my close friend to suicide, as well as my grandfather, to cancer. Before this, I hadn't ever lost anyone close to me and felt very fortunate.

The death of my grandfather was expected, but still tough. When my biological father failed to be there for me, my grandpa came in to share wise lessons I'll carry with me forever. He was full of that fatherly love I've never truly known.

The death of my friend was an entirely different experience, and one that shook me in ways nothing else ever has. It was completely unexpected, left little room for me to grieve my grandfather, and threw me into a dark night of the soul.

This only caused more issues between my boyfriend and me, as he couldn't understand why I was so beaten down and affected by my friend's suicide. Because this friend and I were romantic at one point, my boyfriend became jealous and would interrogate me about the past.

He'd get angry when I had photos or any other evidence of memories out, and after a week had gone by, he questioned why I was still sad. "It's time to get over this!" he demanded.

Through his games and manipulation, I came to believe that how I was responding to such a life-altering event was wrong and unfair to the person I was with. How could I be so inconsiderate and selfish? I thought.

During one of our worst fights, he cornered me and screamed in my face over and over, one of my deepest fears, saying, "You're the reason he killed himself!"

I was, after all, one of the last two people he reached out to before deciding to end his life. Unfortunately, I didn't see his message and respond soon enough.

I know now I am not responsible for my friend's death, but for a long time, I wasn't so sure. There is obviously much more to this story, which I'll save for another essay.

What I'll end this section with is by saying that without the help of therapy, I would have never left the toxic relationship I was in.

My close friends had all distanced themselves because they were tired of hearing the same complaints, but never seeing a change. One of my closest friends even became triggered by what I was going through, and it hurt her too much to watch me succumb to so much abuse.

It unfortunately took me having to leave a few times before finally leaving for good. Each step of the way, my therapist was there to guide and remind me of my worth.

Masking and trying to understand the answer to the question, "Who am I?"

After leaving my ex, I moved back to Portland, where I went to college, and got a simple one-bedroom apartment. I was committed to creating a safe space after having felt so unsafe for so long.

My nervous system needed a reset, and I needed to focus on caring for myself. But caring for myself became really hard. I hadn't been alone in a long time, and although I spent most of my adolescence caring for myself, being in such an unhealthy relationship turned me into an extremely codependent and paranoid person.

On the outside, my life looked quite good, though.

I was working as a Recovery Coach at an eating disorder facility for adolescents. The work was tough, but it was so rewarding. I had also just started a graduate program in Mental Health Counseling.

Meanwhile, my own mental health was a disheveled mess.

I was having panic attacks regularly and felt so exhausted most days that I'd stay in my robe and avoid leaving my apartment until I absolutely had to. I regularly had thoughts of suicide. When I'd return home from work late at night, I'd look for hidden cameras and people in my apartment because I constantly felt like I was being watched.

Around this time, I was officially diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder (GAD), Depression, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

I got on antidepressants for the first time and started noticing some small changes.

I've always been a go-getter and pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps kind of girl, but I couldn't be that any longer. I had no energy and struggled to find a reason to fight.

Finally, having space to process the death of my friend without being shamed, I often ruminated on the question of — what is the point of all this?

I let go of several of the Christian ideals I had clung to for so many years, and I stepped away from the church. I started questioning my sexuality and trying to understand who I really was.

For so much of my life, I've been who other people wanted or needed me to be. I've tried on and worn an assortment of masks, but my friend, through his passing, taught me one very valuable lesson; the lesson that life is too damn short to live only for other people.

If my life was going to be worth living, I had to start living for me — for the true me — not some fabricated version.

But there was one major issue I kept running into: I had just published a memoir that included several messages interweaving Christian values. And I had just shared with the world a version of me that did feel true for a brief moment.

If I changed my mind, I worried I'd be seen as a hypocrite.

He helped me face my truth and not keep running from it

While wrestling with all I mentioned above and more, I met my current partner, Anthony. We actually met before I moved back to Portland, but I was closed off to dating and needed a break from anything serious.

He understood that and gave me as much space as I needed. He respected my boundaries, and I certainly was not used to that.

Anthony became a close friend before he became my partner. He would help calm me down when I was spiraling, and was always available to help process my emotions.

He'd remind me to get out of my head and into my heart — something I hadn't ever been great at. He expected nothing of me, but did worry about me and wanted to know what I needed to feel okay.

Anthony, from the start, reminded me a lot of the friend I was grieving and wished I would have done things differently with.

When the one-year anniversary of his passing came, Anthony drove 6 hours to spend the day remembering him with me. It was such a special day and one I won't ever forget.

We started officially dating soon after that… once I was sure he was nothing like my ex and the other men I had previously dated; and once I knew I was safe.

Out of every person I've ever crossed paths with, no one has seen me more naked and raw than Anthony. And you know, they always say you should wait to be in a relationship until you learn to be okay on your own, and until you love yourself.

But that's not how it happened for me. It took being in the arms of someone whose love is pure for me to reflect that same type of love back to myself; and it took being with someone who embraced my feminine side for me to also see its value.

One day, Anthony asked me: "What do you want when you're not thinking about everyone else?" And, "What is your truth?"

Enough times of him asking me those same questions and I finally understood the answer; I finally understood that your truth can change throughout your life and that doesn't make you a bad person.

Soon after, I put in a leave of absence, left school, quit my job, and moved back home to where he and my family were. I dismissed the expectations placed on myself and told my perfectionistic part it was time to rest and recharge.

And for a few months, I just slept in, wrote, and hung out with Kiki, Anthony's dog, who is now also my dog. We went walking and running. She watched me cry a lot, and she never left my side. Anthony didn't either.

In time, I got off of my antidepressants and decided to stop therapy.

This is when I also began my journey on Medium. Here's one of the first articles I ever wrote:

Change is the only constant

Today, I am back in therapy and doing more emotional labor to make peace with the past. I'm now a yoga teacher, a successful business owner and a freelance writer.

I still struggle heavily with anxiety, depression, and more cPTSD than PTSD, but I am much better at coping than I used to be. I've also recently begun the diagnostic process for Attention Deficit/ Hyperactive Disorder (ADHD) and Autism because my current therapist and I both have a hunch that I'm on the spectrum.

This would honestly answer so many questions I have about myself and my daily struggles. I've learned it's not uncommon for adult neurodivergent women to be misdiagnosed with anxiety and depression, mainly, due to high levels of masking throughout their lives.

I recently saw an old photo of me, from when I was with my ex, and I immediately felt sorry for the girl in that photo; for how she looked, and for the horrible situation she was in but couldn't seem to find her way out of.

It's sad, but I'm also proud to say I don't recognize that girl anymore.

I have changed so much in the past three years, which I have come to view as something positive — not something to be ashamed of.

Who I was when I wrote my memoir was beautiful; and who I am now is equally as beautiful. Both versions are true, and both versions deserve to be happy and set free.