WHO AM I
Hello. My name is Macy Rae -- and I was depressed.
What are you?
Hello. My name is Macy Rae -- and I was alone .
What are you?
Hello. My name is Macy Rae -- and I was trapped .
what are you?
Hello. My name is Macy Rae and I was a cutter.
What are you?
Hello. My name is Macy Rae -- and I was-- ???
Have you ever noticed the way a story can define you? My story did. I wore it as though it were an outfit. My depression kept me warm and safe. My anxiety was "comfortable". My self harm made me happy. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I somehow became my scars. Macy Rae faded away and became a crimson drip on white porcelain. It was as though I never existed outside of my wounds. When the cuts healed, it was as though my identity was slipping away-- and because of that, I needed more. I always needed just one more.
For me, it really wasn't that I was trapped in my depression and self harm habits- no one was holding me hostage. I was simply too scared to live a life that was unknown. Kind of like being afraid of the dark, the darkness isn't what is scary, it is what lurks behind the shadows.
When I was living in the darkness, I often looked at pictures of the past -- baby pictures. Each picture was a time where I was happy, carefree, innocent, and filled with laughter. I always asked myself when did I change? How did I become the monster that I was?
I did not understand that I never did change. I still had that childlike joy within me, I had simply refused to let it shine. That refusal -- is what kept me depressed for so long. All I had to do, was open my arms and embrace who I really was. As soon as I figured that out, I was freed and I discovered something. A story has power, but it can not determine who you are. It can not decide who you will be.
My name is Macy Rae -- I am joyous
What are you?
My name is Macy Rae -- I am loved
What are you?
My name is Macy Rae -- I am free
What are you?
My name is Macy Rae -- I am Macy Rae
Who are you?
