Project: Color Me Beautiful – Scarred, But Still Worth It
By: Cindy Jean-Georges
I was good at school and always on the honor roll. I was involved in extracurriculars. My teachers always had great things to say about me during parent-teacher conferences. So in my early teen years, if you had asked me what my biggest goal was, of course I would tell you I had a plan to go to college, major in psychology, and become a therapist. Sounds nice, right? My real goal – make it to 18.
I knew I was depressed when I was 12. It wasn’t your average pre-teen angst or a sad day here and there. No, I felt hopeless, worthless, and had lost count of the number of times I had contemplated suicide. By 16, I was no longer “contemplating” suicide, but picturing it vividly and frequently. My mind was constantly immersed in this fantasy world I created where I no longer felt pain, and more importantly, one where it didn’t matter if I didn’t matter. And believe me, I was convinced with everything in me that I did not matter.
As much as I thought about it, and as many times as I came incredibly close, I never went through with any of my plans to commit suicide. Instead, I found a coping method. Burning. It was quick, it was pain that I could control, and it was easy to explain away. “Oh, I was getting something out of the oven”. “I was reaching for something on the stove”. Lies and more lies. I would take a knife out of the kitchen drawer, turn the stove on, and let the knife heat up. Then I would burn my left arm. I had everyone in my life fooled. Nobody knew that the girl who was constantly cracking jokes would sit in her room with the lights off for hours at a time, rocking back and forth, unable to catch her breath from crying so much. Nobody knew that the girl who was always wearing a smile would utter the words “I hate you” to herself regularly. And nobody knew that the same girl who posted inspirational quotes daily on Facebook also carried around just enough painkillers so that if and when she finally decided that her time had come, she could do what she knew she had to. It worked for years. The problem is that there are only so many burns one can accumulate on one specific body part before people start to wonder if you’re just really clumsy or if something deeper is going on. Most people assumed the latter and with that, my secret was out.
Fast forward a bit, I started seeing a therapist. She was great. She offered perspectives I had never considered and helped me dig deeper into my “I don’t matter” complex. I finally felt like I could vent and release everything I had been holding in for 6 years without feeling like I was being a huge burden. She suggested medication and I was willing to do whatever it took to get better. I wasn’t suddenly cured and my depression didn’t magically disappear, but I was able to manage. I was able to think clearly. A bad grade or a fight with a friend didn’t have me reaching for a knife and turning on the stove anymore. I was no longer sitting alone, in the dark for hours on end. I wasn’t all the way there yet, but I could tell I was on my way to realizing that I did matter. I was worth it. And guess what – I made it to 18! With that, I knew I had a story to tell. Sure, it was still being written, but I was making progress.
I think what’s so beautiful about this thing called progress is that you can still slip and fall. Lord knows I did. But then you get back up and you keep going. You keep pushing. Having a slip up or a relapse doesn’t erase the progress you’ve made. It just means you’re human. In my journey to a healthier Cindy, I certainly made mistakes. After each one, I had to remind myself that I was still worth it. My burn scars prove that I’m capable of progress and capable of overcoming. I’m capable of turning something I thought would be the end of me into a story I want to share with anyone who needs to hear it. I suddenly realized that my story was worth sharing because it matters. And it matters, because I matter.
