Life Goal: Life Is A Journey, Live It Like One.

Being a female, and trying to be an individual, is a task. Especially when you grow up around boys. Boys who were the first choice for everything. Of course, being a girl, being a father's little princess, was a plus point, but not in the real world, where one has to fight for their rights, to take care of a family, and to create an identity for themself. 

There had been times, like when being told to help mother in the kitchen seemed unfair. Or when it was time to decide a major, the choice was actually not yours. Being told to dress the part meant to dress up in to order to take care of family, to cook, to clean, and to keep everyone happy.

Somewhere along these times, we all grew up. Grew up being distant from others. Became an introvert. Started living in our own mind. Forgot what it was like to be ourselves.

Even mentioning the word depression meant retarded. And nobody wanted to be called that. Health only meant being physically healthy.

Personally, I had lived quite a few instances where my mind was not at a right place. Afraid of being called retarded, I let it ate me from inside. 

Even a yell could make me cry. Anger used to simmer somewhere, but the tears were too much to contain. From being a happy, bubbly child, I became an introvert, no friends, no conversations. Even being with family seemed unbearable. The only form of solace was the books, the other world where I could be anything. 

When things seemed tough, whether it be social gathering, or a simple fight with a brother, running back to my room, my place of heaven, was the only comfort. Books were there, yes, but weren't enough always to cool me down. A pinch turned to a biting of lip, which turned to a slap, and ultimately self-harm. A few years, give or take, when this too stopped feeling like a solution, spiraling in and out of depression, and there was nothing else to go to. Something happened that broke me and I told my parents everything. Of course, there were questions, there were outbursts, there were tears, but still wasn't any hug. 

Thank goodness for the invention of social media. I made my journey of self-healing. Read more and more, started drawing and painting. Saw somewhere that it really helps, and it does actually. The itch to harm yourself can be diminished by trying other things. Drawing over my legs and arms with a sketch pen helped me a lot. Eventually, I switched to pen and paper. Started going to the gym as well, which helped immensely, just another way of dealing with the overpowering emotions. Started growing my circle of friends as time passed by. Proud to say that I found a few which are no less than any gem. They helped me grow, never judged, and them being there for me was enough. 

Years have passed now. Even the broken relationship with the family has amended, and is actually going on strong. I still cry sometimes, but those are happy tears usually, and since I am human, I may cry angry tears as well.

I am not proud of what I did, but neither am I ashamed. It made me the person who I am today, and damn good and well at what I do. Life's a journey, and I am living it like one.