“Hey, Mike,” I say as I sit in my chair. He walks over to me and greets me like he does every other day of the week. I turn back and sit in my pale, cold, poster-covered classroom and act as I do every other day. In my head, a million thoughts are constantly racing. The constant feeling of dread looms over me like a shadow being cast behind my back. The fear of needing to be normal devoid of all circumstances around me hangs like fog over a field. Learning how to be well-adjusted after living a life full of uncertainty and fear is possibly the greatest challenge someone could ever face.

 At a young age, life became more of a fight for survival than a life worth living. Growing up without the love needed by those who were supposed to give it to you forced me into premature maturity. I learned to afford others the kindness I was never given by those whom I need it from most. I learned to take care of others, to make sure their needs are met, because I understand what it's like to not have those things there. I carry the trauma of not only me, but my family before me who decided for me what I would be; but, I spit in the face of generational trauma and pain. I used to believe that all I carried was anger, sadness, and spite; but, in truth, I carry love. I carry love for those who deserve and don’t deserve it. I carry kindness for those that search for it. I carry hope for myself and others. I carry myself, I’ve always carried myself, and I will continue to carry myself.

That being said, I wasn’t always able to carry myself. Learning to be me felt like a trek to the mountaintop. The proverbial avalanches and mudslides of my life almost made me falter and fall. For so long, I wished to quit my trek to self-acceptance and self-discovery. Before I was even able to start life, my father joined the army and left my mom and me. This felt like the first level to carrying myself. Learning to overcome my father’s abandonment of me and eventually reconnecting with him down the road took more willpower than ever imaginably. Young me was a fighter beyond human capabilities. The fact that he was able to survive despite all the hardships life had thrown at him amazes me. He survived poverty, abandonment, and moving away from the only family he had known all without giving it a second thought. This version of me lives with the first thing I carry: love. 

Love was a feeling I yearned for as a young child, and this drive for love helped push me to express love to others. Without the love of a biological father, I found love in my “true” dad. He was the one who stepped up and took me in at a young age. Through him and my mom, I learned how to love others unconditionally. Even in my worst moments, I find ways to find love. Love for others, myself, my situation, love for anything and everything around me. In time, I even learned how to love the father who once wanted nothing to do with me. I grew to understand his position and his situation, and through love, I learned forgiveness. 

Learning to forgive saved my life. It acted as an ice pick holding me to the side of the mountain that was self-discovery. I felt like my ability to forgive was the greatest trait I had; it had gotten me this far anyway. I quickly learned that forgiveness can turn from a lifeline to a crutch that blinds from reality. Midway through my trek, I would face the harshest conditions on my journey. The cycle of trauma finally came to claim its next victim, my mom.

My mom was my best friend in my early life. For the longest time, it was just she and I against the world. We fought, tooth and nail, against every single obstacle in our way and always came out on the other side smiling and laughing. Even after being abandoned and poor, we found ways to see the beauty in life. My mom was a strong woman, only standing at around 5’ tall, her long red hair ran down past her shoulders like rivers of magma on a volcano. Her eyes sparkled like stars in the sky on a clear night. This woman helped shape me as I am today, not only through her words, but through her actions. She was a beam of light, so it was only natural that her light would be swallowed by some form of darkness. She started to show symptoms of a terrible, unimaginable disease around the time I was 12. It had seemed like the beast with many faces, the monster with many names, the fire that destroyed everything in its path had finally come to swallow the person I had loved most: addiction.

Addiction gripped my mom's neck like hands choking someone until their face turned purple. It had wrapped itself around her mind and had infected her tongue with vile lies and malice. The once sweet beam of light I had known turned into the very monster she had promised to protect me from. The monster that tore my home into pieces right before my eyes. The monster that made her lay on the floor, surrounded by bottles, while promising to get better. This monster turned the sparkle in her eyes into a slow, fading light pleading for help to a child that could barely understand how to process his own emotions. This monster invited other creatures made of malice and bile to infect me. These monsters caused panic attacks and mental breakdowns in class that made me too afraid to reach out for help. The ice pick I had used to climb this mountain had caused me to fall into the abyss that lay below me.

 For two years, my mom’s addiction stuck like an arrow in the back of a tired soldier. She missed birthdays, holidays, dances, and almost every special moment I had due to her addiction within this time period. I vividly remember the calls from her I would receive from these rehab centers. The hope that would swell within me would swiftly be dashed with every return she would have back into my home. At the end of this two-year period, my mother’s abusive tendencies she had developed during this time came to a dramatic conclusion when she assaulted my dad. Watching my mom be escorted out of my own home left lasting scars on my psyche. This forceful removal of my best friend and the subsequent enemy left me with as much relief as it did sadness. For once in a long time, I felt safe in my own home. Through this safety, I believe I developed a new tool for my journey up this mountain. I had learned true kindness.

Kindness became the trait that helped pull me back up the mountain. While my mother was momentarily out of my life, I used kindness as a climbing rope. Through times of struggle, I learned to survive, but during this trial, I learned that surviving wasn't good enough. Instead of just trying to survive, I needed to learn how to live. Kindness allowed me to live. Kindness allowed me to surround myself with wonderful people who opened a door within me to hope. 

With love, forgiveness, and kindness all being things I carried, I needed to find the final thing that would get me to the peak: hope. Deep down, I think I carried hope this whole time. What else would have pushed me to keep on surviving this hand I had been dealt? I always thought that my life was a story of hopelessness and trauma, but that was simply not true. The climb up the mountain is steep and perilous, but it is a climb filled with hope–Hope that I will get to the top and see what  I truly carry. As my hand begins to slowly wrap around the final obstacle in my way, I pull myself up and begin to look down at this abyss below me. This once dark and desolate wasteland had become something of beauty and awe. I look down into the ever-expanding landscape of love, forgiveness, kindness, and hope, and in this instant, I realize the thing I’ve known since the beginning of my life. The true thing I’ve carried through all this trauma and turmoil was myself.