As a little girl, I remember hiding under my covers from the monsters under my bed. The crazy thing about that memory, is I can still see them, I remember them climbing on my walls, with smiles on their faces as they stared at me trying to go back to sleep. I still remember lying there facing the wall, and suddenly a giant furry arm was on my shoulder, I leaped up, and looked around and nothing was there. But, I know what I seen! I crawled in bed with one of my older sisters, the one who I thought would always be there for me, through the monsters and anything else that was bothering me.

I grew older and the visual monsters disappeared. But, they were replaced with monsters that lived in my head. "I am ugly", "worthless," "stupid," the thoughts that I would think about myself as a child while I looked in the mirror. I hated me, and no one knew it. I smiled, I laughed, and talked up a storm while I was with everyone. But, at night I would cry myself to sleep, I can still remember the prayers I used to say every night. The pleading with God, to take me home, Earth is not the place for me. Or the pleading, to send me someone who understood me, just a little. Or my favorite, please God, give me my father back, I want someone that loves me, someone that sees me. Let him treat me like my little brother's dad treats him. I want random candy and toys, I want to cry and shout and get my way just once. I want someone to see me as they see him. I was tired of crying myself to sleep at just nine years old. The best part is no one ever noticed how depressed I was, and neither did I until now, until now at thirty years old.

I do not know if anyone will read this, and I am not really sure anyone should. But, writing is healing, at least it seems like a band-aid. Maybe someone has similar stories that I will share. I am 30 now, and my life has only gotten nuttier. This is just the start of what I believe is MY personal mental illness.