Monroe a.
Photography by Margeaux Edwards
If you’re reading this, I promise you it gets better.
Almost a year ago today, I broke up with my abusive ex-boyfriend. I have photos of me the day of and days later, and it feels impossible to believe that we are the same person. Their hair was buzzed, their eyes dead, and their face showed no hope of future or redemption or change. I slugged my way through senior year, abandoned by those I considered my closest friends, and truly believing there was nothing more for me. I held out and held on, longing for a change, something, anything. I didn’t believe it, but something told me to keep going. I don’t know who or what it was, but I am forever grateful for that voice.
I look at a photo of me last week, out to coffee and brunch with a friend, and am amazed that that person is me. They are smiling, light and joy in their eyes, shoulders and posture relaxed, cane and compression gloves next to them, confidence in their place in the world, their body, and the space they take up. That person is me. I have this confidence.
It does not feel real, this transformation I have undergone. I got a tattoo for it, a Taylor Swift lyric in my handwriting on my right forearm. “Long story short it was a bad time; long story short I survived.” A reminder to me of what I have lived through, and what I’ve survived.
It’s not been easy, and I won’t lie to you and say that it has been. I’ve been diagnosed with Ehler’s Danlos Syndrome and fibromyalgia, and we suspect I also have rheumatoid arthritis, an autoimmune disorder shown in some blood work that took two weeks to get. I’ve fought with my family on me calling myself disabled. I’ve been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. I can’t walk anymore without a cane, soon I will need a wheelchair, and I will never get better. I will always be sick.
It’s strange, as my therapist pointed out to me last week, for me to say this bluntly. I will never get better. I will always be sick.
That doesn’t make my life worse. Honestly, the more we’ve learned about my health, my body, and my mind, the more I’ve realized how grateful I am. The ways that I have been helped here, the people I’ve met, and the spaces I’ve made; these things are invaluable, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
I come home from classes, take the bus home from Walmart, drag myself up the seven flights of stairs, and feel a sense of peace. My dorm, my room, my friends, my girlfriend, my job, my classes, my teachers, all these things and people have made me feel more peaceful. I told my mom I want domestic peacefulness, just as they want a life they don’t feel the need to run from. We’ve created it, our own spaces and peace.
If you’re reading this, I promise you it gets better. The waiting and the work are incredibly difficult, but I promise you it’s worth it. I promise. You will have your own space, peace, and people. You will have your community that loves and sees you for who you are, and you will find a sense of domestic peace. You are worthy of this, of love and belonging.
If you’re reading this, I see you. You are not alone.
Monroe A. (they/them), Washington State University
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