We Made It

By: Savannah Graves
Inspired by: Shane Koyczan

Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.
We’ve all heard it. That rhyme. About sticks and stones.
When I was little, I took care of my mom. She was constantly wasted. Not a memory of her sober in my head. I attended several of her weddings, none of which lasted more than two months. I routinely fell asleep to the sound of yelling. Cursing. Glass breaking. Curse words thrown back and forth.
As was best for me, I was taken away from her. Placed in the home of my cousins. Loving people who barely knew me, yet sacrificed so much. I was told I could go back when my mom got her life together. Days passed. Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. Months turned to years. And there I was. 12, adopted, but happy and full of life. My goal was to put a smile on people’s faces.
In Elementary school, I was teased a lot. But I laughed right with them, no big deal. Then, at 12 years old, I started middle school. The teasing continued. But not for being small… or teacher’s pet… no. I was happy. Happy. FREAKING. HAPPY.
…
There was something wrong with me, they said. To me, life was pretty good. Why bother my time with being anything other than happy? But I guess that wasn’t enough for them. No, what they wanted was NORMAL. They didn’t want to be tainted with my happiness. I was a disease to be avoided. I was a sickness that couldn’t be taken care of by any contents found in a first aid kit.
They took care of me. I built a wall. No, not a wall. I built a whole house in my world of isolation. I didn’t talk to anyone and no one talked to me. My parents tried to break down the walls for me. Their actions were in vain. I just retaliated. They got so fed up they told me I’d never become anything more than my mother was. I swore off ever letting anyone get close to me. I swore off marriage. I swore off having kids knowing that I would never be fit to be a mother.
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I’m not the only kid who grew up this way. Don’t tell me the names I was called hurt less than a broken bone. Because I grew up believing I wasn’t worth being loved. I would never amount to anything. I hated what I had become. My broken life was not something that could be sewn back together.
That summer before freshman year, I was a mix of one part anti-depressants, and 99 parts tragedy.
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Now I’m 16. I’ve lived two more years than the person I once was. I’ve gathered more wisdom, more happiness than I have had in 5 years. It’s not always easy, it gets really hard. But it’s worth it. Every day is worth living.
Depression is not a molehill. It’s a mountain. No number of hugs could take it away. No number of pills could destroy the thoughts that ran through my mind. No number of cuts made on my arm could replace the brokenness inside me. Depression is not a molehill. So don’t tell me that sticks and stones hurt less than the words thrown at me, the names shouted at me.
…
I’m not the only kid who grew up this way. We are the veterans of war fought between ourselves. Our anthem will always be a shout of “We Made It!” But our lives will always continue to be an inspiration despite the brokenness that still haunts us.