Today, Friday the 13th (yay!) of November, is TWLOHA Day. You may not know what TWLOHA is. Not everybody does. It stands for To Write Love On Her Arms. It’s basically a nonprofit movement to help and support people who have issues with self-harm, depression, addiction, and suicide. The mission is to spread hope and let people know that they are loved and there is a wide world out there that wants them in it. It’s about putting down the knife, not taking the pills, and living to see the next day. It’s about talking to someone about what’s wrong and getting the help needed.
So why do I care?
I was eighteen years old, a freshman in college, out in the big bad world on my own for the first time. Home is Nashville, school in Atlanta, so it was a four-hour drive to see anyone I knew or loved. I had three roommates, one of whom I vehemently disliked, one who was rarely around, and one I didn’t have much in common with. Not the best of mixes.
I’ve always been introverted, so friends are few and far between. It wasn’t surprising, but it was disappointing, that I didn’t make many other friends while I was there. I can only recall the name of one other person I hung around with. I was constantly alone, being left behind or forgotten about. I’m used to it. If anyone’s order gets forgotten at a restaurant, it’s mine. But somehow, during the two semesters I was there, I reached my breaking point.
In my teens, I suffered from horrible migraines. Still do, but not to such an extent. So I had some prescription drugs to help relieve them. They had side effects, though. My nose would get cold, my fingers and toes numb, and I would get very, very sleepy.
I was talking to one of my online friends one night, telling her how bad things were and nobody loved me. I don’t remember what brought it on; that part isn’t important. The important thing is that I talked to her, told her how depressed I was and how I always felt unloved and forgotten.
I told her I was going to take the entire contents of my prescription bottle. There were 19 pills left. Nineteen pills, when one knocked me out, what would that do to me? I don’t know. I never found out. She talked to me, told me that I was wrong in my assumptions and that I was loved. She begged me not to take any pills, told me she loved me and what would my mom think?
I think I couldn’t go through with it just because of the thought of my mother. Not that she’d miss me, but that she’d be pissed off at me. She’d have to go through my things at home. It would be a burden on her, and I didn’t want to do that. Funny what little things you think of.
But I’m glad. I’m glad that I had someone to talk to, someone who could point out all the problems with my idea. Someone who eventually became my first girlfriend, funnily enough. I put the pills away and I lived. I still have the same feelings of inadequacy or unloveableness, but I can get through it because I have friends, and they love me. Whether they show it or not, I know it’s true. I have people to talk to, and sometimes that’s all you need. Because of that, I write love on my arms.
Pick up the phone and call someone.
You are loved.
twloha day
