*Go to www.aliewa.tumblr.com/tagged/personal to fill in the stories with the stars by them

**Please, if you’re going to read this, read it all. I know it’s long, but I’m asking this much of you. Leave me your thoughts in my ask box if you feel compelled to do so; it would mean a lot to me.

Here we go.

My name is Alison Elizabeth Waxman, and this is my story:

I was born on a Thursday in September with two other sisters; triplets. We were premies. We were supposed to be born on Halloween or November first, but came about five weeks early. I am the oldest by a minute and two minutes. We were underweight, but healthy. Or so we thought.

I was sick a lot and very underweight, which everyone wrote off as being a triplet. My BMI was literally that of an anorexic, and people didn’t hesitate to tell me so. I’m almost 5’7, which is kind of tall, so I got many stares and people asking me if I had an eating disorder. People called me skeletal even, and I hated it. I wore glasses, braces, and had long, frizzy hair. I hated myself. I hated myself because I couldn’t be what anyone wanted me to be. I couldn’t go to school every day like my parents wanted. I wanted to be healthy. I had an extreme amount of anxiety because I would always worry about getting sick. I had a headache every single day that never faded, and had at least one migraine a month. I would get sick at the drop of a hat and take weeks to recover from something as plain as the common cold, and I hurt, my gosh, Ihurt. 

My grades slipped because I was gone, so I couldn’t be the straight-A student either. I couldn’t be pretty like the world wanted. I couldn’t have a normal body like I wanted. I felt like I couldn’t do anything right. No guy ever liked me like they did my friends. I wasn’t known for anything except my intelligence, so that’s what I clung to. If I couldn’t be beautiful, I’d just be smart. And I was. By fifth grade, I was reading at a college level and doing algebra. It didn’t fill the hole, but I kept trying to make it so. I remember having a panic attack at a birthday party and having to be brought home. I remember crying in my dad’s arms, telling him that I just wanted to be beautiful. I didn’t want to be stuck in the background. I just wanted to be thought of kindly. I just wanted to be loved. At twelve years old, I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression.

Then, the summer before middle school, I moved almost five hundred miles down to southern California. To say it turned my life upside down is an extreme understatement. This may sound trivial to you, but I was twelve years old. A child. I already hated myself and I had to start over in a new city with a new school with new kids and zero friends. Everyone knows kids are cruel; especially middle schoolers. I cried myself to sleep at night a lot in the beginning, because at least in my old home I had friends. Here, I had nothing. I couldn’t make friends when I wasn’t at school, and nobody seemed to care. I remember changing for p.e. in the locker-rooms and being stared at and asked if I was anorexic. Everybody stared and whispered, and it wasn’t a compliment. It was because I was skinny. It was because I was different. It was because I was me. 

*In August of 2007, I woke up to a text asking to pray for one of my friends because he was on life support. To keep a long story short, he didn’t make it. I cried, and to be honest, I wished it was me, because I hurt. He had a bright future ahead of him and tons of friends, and I didn’t. It was my first of many experiences with death.

In the fall of 2007, I entered high school, and I was still very sick, and I weighed about ninety pounds.  I remember spending nights curled up in bed with a migraine, feeling the worst pain in the world, and I just wanted anything to make it stop. There were those mornings that I got yelled at because I didn’t feel well enough to school that left me crying in bed after my parents finally gave in and left for work. There were those days that I was hurting so much physically and mentally that I couldn’t take it anymore. It’s impossible to describe, but I always held on, even if I didn’t know why. In November 2007, I was diagnosed with an IGA Deficiency, a vitamin B12 deficiency, as well as CVID (Common Variable Immunodeficiency). I was put on more pills to help regulate my health, because there is no curing either, and I got weekly shots of vitamin B12. I started attending UCLA Children’s Hospital regularly for tests and check-ups. *In December of 2007, one of my other friends passed away, and it was another traumatic experience for me. I made it to the end of the first semester with about forty absences. It wasn’t uncommon for me to be absent for weeks at a time because I was just too sick to go.  Because of all my absences, I was transferred to independent study. It was absolute hell. I was given thirty hours of coursework to do in a week, by myself. It was all bookwork, because there was nobody to teach me; I had to teach myself. I’d get up in the morning and do my work alone, until my family returned. For my “friends,” it was out of sight, out of mind. It was like I ceased to exist. I was an outcast in the world because of something I couldn’t control. I wanted so much just to be healthy, to be NORMAL. I never got invited anywhere. Nobody ever texted or called me. I spent all my time at home, working. I remember crying, so much crying. I didn’t feel like anybody cared or wanted me. My parents were frustrated and didn’t know what to do, and it was fair to say I didn’t really have friends. I’d go to the school to turn in my work and take tests, but I’d show up crying and in pain. Nobody understood, and I just wanted to disappear. My GPA that year was a 2.8.

 All of these people who didn’t even know me were judging me and saying horrible things. I woke up every day in so much pain that I had to stay in bed all day. I was constantly doing make-up work as well as the regularly assigned work. I’d miss weeks of school at a time, and not all of the teachers were understanding. I had two teachers that drilled into me that I wasn’t good enough and would never be. They taught me self-loathing. They taught me that no matter how many classes I took, it would never be enough; that I’d always be second best. They taught me that I shouldn’t bother chasing my dreams because I will never be enough. They taught me that some people have everything fall into place for them, and that I would never be one of those people. They saw me for the problems I had and not for the person I was. They constantly made me cry as I stood up for myself. They swore at me, yelled at me, and more. The areas in which they taught were the two things that I could lose myself in and that I wanted to do for the rest of my life, and here I was being told that I was no good at the two things that made me happy; that I would never be successful. I will never be able to explain the amount of bad they made me see in the world and the amount of the self-hatred they taught. 

 I slowly got back to my friends, but I was still alone. That school year, I kept my head down and poured myself into my schoolwork. I raised my GPA to a 3.8; one whole grade. I was getting through, but I wasn’t happy. I still hurt all the time, and my family struggled for answers as to why. You could find my dad on the phone, arguing with different doctors and insurance companies. The doctors didn’t seem to care that I was hurting. They didn’t seem to understand that I was an actual person that mattered. More tests diagnosed me with a pain disorder carelessly labeled as Fibromyalgia, another immune deficiency, and more. I was put on more pills, given more shots, more tests, and referred to so many more specialists. I became jaded. I didn’t believe that what they told me was going to help until I physically felt the results (which, by the way, never happened). At one point, including vitamin supplements, I was taking up to 20-25 pills a day. I hated it, and still do. *In April of 2009, I woke up to some of the worst news I had ever gotten: another friend had passed away. It was another horrible shock to me. In July 2009, a teacher of mine also passed away. Every time, I thought it would be the last time, but it never was. All around me, my wonderful, beautiful friends were passing away, and there was nothing I could do about it. It was traumatizing, and I became afraid of losing anyone else. 

Junior year was a test for me. I decided to audition for the musical, and got into the dance corps. It was a rigorous schedule for me, and it tested my health and sanity. I loved every second of it, but at the same time, I had to focus on keeping myself “well.” I got a lot of migraines and missed a lot of school, but I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything, because that was when I proved to myself that I was capable of doing more. I had a 3.6 GPA that year. *In May of 2010, my grandmother passed away, and in June 2010, I lost a friend to suicide. I still hurt every day, but junior year was when I started to see a little bit of light at the end of the tunnel, even if it was a pinprick. 

2010-2011; Senior year. I told myself that this year was going to be about me, but I don’t know how well I kept that promise. I had long days, being in three choirs, one of which was a zero period. I got a lead in the school play, but I got so sick that I ended up in the ER and unable to perform one out of the six nights the show ran. I was vocal core in the spring musical and, although I got sick, it wasn’t sick enough to keep me from performing. I’ve been maintaining a 4.0 GPA. I saved one of my friends from suicide. I still have to get weekly shots and take a lot of prescriptions every day, but I’m getting stronger. I’m up to 110 pounds. Although I’m getting stronger, there are still days where I physically hurt so much I can’t do anything but lie in bed prone. Maybe I’m just learning to push through and hide it better, though. There are still days where I want to give up, though I promised I never would. 

I started to attend California Lutheran University as the class of 2015. I got an academic scholarship, and although it wasn’t as much as others I’d been offered, I chose to go to CLU. It was a decision I did a lot of thinking and praying about, and a lot of it came down to my health. CLU is only fifteen minutes away from my house, so I commute there. I wasn’t sure what I would find there, but it truly was the right decision to make. I am doing what I love and majoring in theatre arts with a performance emphasis. I was cast in an amazing show my fall semester, a show that was regionally recognized and competed against the best of the best. A lot have good things have happened, but it hasn’t always been easy. I am still struggling with my day to day health, and was hospitalized in late December through early January. In December, I was faced with the worst depression I have ever faced, and for six weeks, the worst health I have ever been in. I wasn’t living; I was merely existing. I was sleeping for up to 20 hours a day and couldn’t wake up. My parents had to force me to eat and drink to stay hydrated. I dropped twenty pounds; twenty pounds I didn’t even have to lose in the first place. It set me back farther than ever before. I started the Spring 2012 semester sick and afraid, and although I still am, things are starting to get better.

It would be a lie to say that, in those six and a half years, I never thought about death. People use the term “depressed” lightly, and not many people know what it is like to truly be depressed in the medical sense. 

Depression is an unforgiving puppet-master. It moves for you and covers your eyes, constantly blinding you to the good of this world. It leads you into the darkness, filling your head with thoughts you know aren’t true until you start to accept them. It will break you down and make you question everything you thought to be true. There’s nowhere to run, because you can’t run away from yourself. There’s nowhere to hide, and there’s no taking a break from it. You’re held prisoner to yourself, and everybody’s afraid of dealing with you. Just when you need someone the most, they pull away.The reason you need them is the reason why they leave. Soon, it seems like nobody’s left and nobody cares, so you wonder why you’re here.

You see, the thing is that I know how death feels. I know how it impacts everyone. I know how suicide hurts everyone around you. All those times that my heart was torn out and my soul was shattered, I knew that was exactly what I would be doing to people if I ever did it, so I promised myself that I never would. Because I know what that feels like, I’m trying to make sure that nobody else ever has to go through that. 

 Even now, there are people that chastise me for being open about this and speaking up about it. People hate me because I’m a fighter. Nobody wants to be bothered with these stories. Everyone asks me to keep it inside, but how can I? Can’t they see they’re suffocating me? This controls every single aspect of my life, and I need to be able to at least speak about it. I’m commanded like a dog to sit, stay, and shut up. How dare I fight for my rights? How dare I try to explain myself? How dare I even for once second think that somebody cares enough to read this? My mom tells me not to post “sad” things on facebook because it scares people, my sisters tell me that I shouldn’t speak out, so then nobody has anything to hurt me with, and my “friends” don’t care enough to try to understand. What none of them understand is that holding this inside is toxic; I can’t do it. I can’t do it without having it kill me. Why won’t anybody be there for me? Why won’t anyone be selfless for one single second? I guess I just wish that I didn’t have to redeem myself; that I didn’t have to try so hard to make people see past the labels to prove that I really am a good person and that I AM worth it….that I AM bigger and better and that my personality and the good things about my outweigh the fact that I’m sick. I don’t want “I love you, BUT…” Who I am as a person…I think it does outweigh my illness, and I want to know that it does too, but the fact is that, a lot of the time, it doesn’t; who I am as a person just doesn’t cut it. Sometimes I wonder why I even try, but that’s just not me; I don’t give up. I never give up on the things that are important to me. 

That’s a promise.

So over time, I opened my eyes to the good of the world. I found hope. It’s not easy, but if you look for it, you will find that this earth is a beautiful place to be. I am so incredibly grateful for everyone in my life that words cannot describe it. I have the most beautiful, accepting, and true friends in the world, and I love them so, SO much. I’m not saying that there aren’t days where I feel sad again, but I keep fighting. I will never let this win. I will never give in to something as simple as a chemical imbalance. I am doing absolutely everything I can to be happy, and to create happiness in others as well, and I will never stop, because nobody should ever choose a permanent solution to temporary problems.

So here I am. Hardly healthy, scared, but hopeful. I am trying with everything I have to make this work. I am doing what I love with people I adore, and am making the best of everything I have. I know life isn’t easy and I’ll never escape this illness, and I’ve accepted that. Now all I can do is hope that you’ll accept me too.