Have you ever wondered how people perceive life? How can our minds become a mess after just one experience?
Let me tell you a story—a story of a girl who bawled herself to sleep, night after night, praying that someone, anyone, would hear her helpless cries and reach out a hand to save her from drowning.

But who would want to save a disastrous girl who isn’t worth saving?

She wasn’t always like this.
She used to think positively. She used to shine—with a light in her eyes so radiant, so curious about the world. She believed in the goodness of people. She believed that for every problem, there was a way out. That hope would always be there, quietly waiting.

But life doesn’t always play fair.
Sometimes, life shatters everything—especially when you least expect it.

It began when her mother chose to marry. A woman full of warmth and blind optimism—someone who always saw the good in people, no matter how much bad was buried underneath.
She married a man who was an alcoholic, a womanizer, and dangerously short-tempered.

What could possibly go wrong?

At first, the girl’s mother believed he could change. That he wouldn’t hurt her or their future children.
Then, her sister was born. The mother struggled—moving in and out of junk houses while juggling bills.

The father?
He did nothing but complain.
How he sold his jeep to pay the hospital bills. Not out of love, but out of resentment.

When she—the second child—was born:
A girl who was alive… but already felt dead.

She grew up carefree, surrounded by the illusion of love. But as her mind developed and awareness bloomed, she began to question it all.
She watched.
She listened.
She learned.

And then she asked:
“Is this what everyone calls love?”

She saw how her father broke spirits with words and fists. How he crushed hearts with silence.
And so she learned:
Love must be earned.
To be loved, you must be seen.
To be loved, you must be heard.

Every day passed by like a blur.
Her little sister was born.

She thought, Maybe… maybe another child can calm the storm inside him.
Maybe a baby in his arms could soften him—make him human again.

But she was wrong.

He didn’t change.
He became worse.
More violent. More cruel.
Even the sight of an innocent baby couldn’t wake his conscience.

He shouted. He threw things. He struck.
There was no mercy. Not even for a child who could barely hold her head up.

She wanted to protect her baby sister—so badly.
But she couldn’t.

She was terrified.
Terrified of what a man like him could do to a girl like her.
Terrified of the rage in his eyes. Of the way his fists spoke louder than his words.
She wanted to be brave. But how can a child protect another when she is still trying to survive?

In a house full of violence,
she often stared at the door.
Maybe outside… it would be different.
Maybe the world would be gentler.
Maybe people would be kinder.
Maybe—just maybe—someone would finally love her.

But again,
she was wrong.

She stepped out hoping for light,
What she experienced was another devastating blow—
another hit to her mind, another crack in her sense of safety.

A child—someone her age, someone barely understanding the world—taught her a twisted version of “play.”
It wasn’t the kind of play children are supposed to know.
It wasn’t innocent.
It shattered her innocence, a moment that should never have existed.

She didn’t know what was happening.
She had no words for it, no understanding.
No one was there to guide her, to explain what was wrong.
In grade two, no teacher had taught students about their bodies or what it meant to protect themselves.

She stayed silent.
Lost. Confused.
Alone in a world that made no sense to her.

She tried to speak out.
But every time she opened her mouth, the world responded with mockery.
They laughed, they turned away, they acted disgusted by the mere thought of it.
Her pain became a joke.
Her truth twisted into something dirty, something shameful.

No one reached out to help.
No one offered comfort or support.
Her cries were swallowed by the laughter, her wounds ignored by the silence.
She was left alone with her pain, trapped in a world that refused to listen.

That day, another family problem erupted.
But for her, it felt like a strange kind of relief.

They were leaving.
Finally, they were getting out of the hell they’d been living in.

Financial struggles had forced them to make a choice—
they had to move to the province to continue their studies, away from the city.
It wasn’t a dream come true, but it was a way out.
A chance to breathe.

She wasn’t sure what awaited her there,
but it couldn’t be worse than the nightmare she was leaving behind.

She found a sense of happiness in the province.
She made friends—genuine ones who welcomed her,
people who showed her what kindness could look like.

But at home, nothing had changed.
Her father was still violent, especially when drunk.

He hated the sound of crying, so she learned to silence her pain.
She cried in secret, hiding her hurt where no one could see it.

But silence wasn’t enough.
She needed to protect herself.
And protecting herself meant becoming like him.

She learned to fight back—not with words, but with fists.
If anyone got in her way, they were punished.
The world had taught her that only the strong survive,
and she was tired of being weak.
So, she became violent—just like her father.
A mirror of the man who had torn apart everything she once loved.

She had become a monster—
a product of the violence that had haunted her for so long.

It reached a point where her anger spilled over,
and she raised her fist against her youngest sister and her grandmother.
In those moments, she saw herself through their eyes—
a reflection of everything she despised.

But even in her rage, there was guilt.
She felt sorry, deep down, for the hurt she caused.
But in her household, heart-to-heart talks didn’t exist.
Words of understanding were forbidden.
Instead, every conversation ended in pain.
Silence was the only answer.

She had learned to keep her emotions hidden,
to bury her sorrow and anger deep inside.
Because in a home like hers, expressing pain was weakness.
Weakness didn’t survive.

She tried to escape by creating an imaginary world,
one where her family was everything it was supposed to be.
She painted a picture of perfect relationships,
hoping her friends would see her as someone worthy of admiration,
someone who didn’t have the weight of the world on her shoulders.

She stole her sister’s savings—enough to buy their trust.
She spent it on them, giving gifts and trying to be someone she wasn’t,
hoping that if she could make them believe in the illusion,
maybe she could convince herself too.

She spun stories about her family,
stories that painted them as loving and normal.
But deep down, she knew the truth.
Her family wasn’t like that.
It was broken, shattered by violence and silence.
She tried to ignore it, tried to live in a world where everything was fine—
but the lies only dug her deeper into the hole she was trying to escape.

Years and days passed, and the weight of her life only grew heavier.
She began to wonder, “Maybe this is my karma.”
Maybe all the pain, all the suffering, was what she deserved.

Then, another man entered her life.
But this time, he didn’t see her as a person—
he saw her as an object, something to satisfy his urges.
Again and again, she became nothing more than a tool for his desires.

She hoped, desperately, that someone—anyone—could save her.
She cried out to God, praying for a way out,
but the silence that followed felt louder than any answer.
She felt abandoned, her cries swallowed by the emptiness.

In the depths of her despair, she called her mom.
“Please, take me with you. Why did you give me life?
I don’t want to live like this anymore. Please, Mom, please.”
Her words were laced with hopelessness,
a final plea for someone to hear her, to save her from the darkness that consumed her.

What were the chances that life might finally offer her a stroke of luck?
After a year, her mom came to the province.
She spent time with them, trying to fix the damage that her father had caused,
trying to heal wounds that felt far too deep.

But when her mom took her and her youngest sister on a trip,
she thought it would be a chance for happiness,
a break from the chaos.
Instead, it became another painful chapter.

They arrived at the house of her father’s mistress.
Her mother’s face was filled with anger, but also something else—
a kind of sorrow, like a woman who had been beaten by life too many times.
Her mother confronted her father’s mistress, saying, “We have three children. Have some conscience.”

It was a confrontation that left scars,
but it was also the beginning of something new.

After that, they left her father without a word.
No more explanations.
No more lies.
And for the first time in years, she could breathe freely.
The weight of her father’s shadow lifted, even if just for a moment.

They were taken back to their old house to start anew,
to rebuild the fragments of their lives that had been shattered.

As she wandered outside, the familiar surroundings of her childhood home felt like a distant memory—
a place where everything had begun,
but also where everything had fallen apart.

She walked slowly, her mind heavy with thoughts of the past.
And then it hit her—
the boy who had broken her innocence was no longer there.
He had moved away from their village.

For the first time in years, she realized that the person who had caused her so much pain was gone.
Gone from her life.
Gone from the place that had once held so many of her darkest memories.

She couldn’t decide if she felt relief or emptiness.
The boy, now a shadow in her past, had left,
but the scars he left behind would always remain,
lingering quietly in the corners of her mind.

For some reason, she felt free.
The three men who had caused her the greatest heartbreak were no longer in her life.
She was no longer chained by their presence,
no longer haunted by their actions.

There was hope now, a faint flicker of it,
a possibility that things could change, that she could change.

Her mom met someone new—
a man who, in time, became Dad.

Not by blood,
but by presence,
by kindness,
by the way he stood tall in the broken places, she never thought could be whole again.

He became the father she never had.
He took care of them with a love that was steady and real.
He made life lighter,
home safer.
And for the first time,
she experienced what it felt like to be protected—
to speak without fear,
to be vulnerable without pain.

There were no fists,
no raised voices.
Just patience.
Gentleness.
Understanding.

And in him, she found something she never thought she’d have—
a protector.
A father in the truest sense of the word.

But as time went on, something inside her shifted.
Her freedom wasn’t the liberation she had expected.
Instead, she found herself becoming hypersexual,
as if she were trying to fill a void,
a hole left by the years of trauma that still clung to her soul.

It wasn’t about desire—it was about something darker.
It felt like self-harm in a different form,
a way to numb the pain that she no longer knew how to face.
Her past was no longer something she could feel,
but the scars it left behind still controlled her.

She didn’t know how to fix what had been broken,
and so she searched for something to fill the emptiness,
something to make her feel alive again,
even if only for a moment.

She began to seek love and affection in others,
looking for something to fill the emptiness inside.
At a young age, she threw herself into dating,
hoping that someone, anyone, could offer the connection she so desperately craved.

But what she didn’t realize was that,
in trying to find love,
she was only feeding the emptiness.
Each relationship, each fleeting moment of affection,
left her feeling more broken than before.

She wasn’t ready for love;
she wasn’t whole enough to give it or receive it.
She thought that someone else could fill the void,
but all it did was draw her further into a cycle of seeking,
only to be left with more pain.

The affection she sought didn’t heal her wounds,
it only made them deeper.
The very thing she believed would save her became the cause of her downfall.

Then, a girl came into her life.
At first, she thought she was fine,
that the years of pain and hardship had been left behind.
But she quickly realized that healing wasn’t as simple as time passing.
She didn’t need to fix herself alone anymore;
she found someone who understood the depth of her wounds,
someone who didn’t run from the chaos but embraced it.

Together, they built a world for the two of them,
a space where both could be vulnerable,
a place where they could try to fix each other’s instability.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs.

The girl meant the world to her,
and she felt the same in return.
For the first time in years,
she didn’t feel like she had to pretend to be someone she wasn’t.
They showered each other with the love they both deserved,
a love that was healing and raw,
no longer based on seeking validation or filling empty spaces,
but on understanding and acceptance.

She could finally say that loving her wasn’t a burden,
that getting to know her only made the love grow stronger.
For the first time, she didn’t believe that knowing someone’s darkest parts would drive them away.
In fact, it was the opposite—
it only brought them closer.

She finally took the step to seek therapy,
a decision that felt both terrifying and necessary.
For the first time, she was ready to open up,
to expose the vulnerable side of herself that she had buried for so long.
It was a step closer to healing,
but it wasn’t easy.

The diagnosis came: Major Depressive Disorder,
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
It was a harsh reality,
a confirmation of everything she had been through,
but it was also a beginning—a name for the pain she had carried in silence.

Yet, as time passed,
she found herself wrestling with darker thoughts.
The anger, the rage—
it consumed her.
She wanted to make those who had hurt her pay,
the ones who had twisted her into someone she didn’t recognize.
The ones who had made her feel like a monster.

The thoughts became uncontrollable,
filling her mind with vengeance.
She was losing the fight to her own darkness.

Desperate for help,
she sought out other psychiatrists,
hoping someone could help her make sense of the storm in her mind.
But as time went on,
some began to view her as more unstable,
as though she was slipping further away from the peace she longed for.

She always prayed for someone to love her—
someone who could mirror back the love she carried so fiercely in her heart.
But when misunderstandings arose in her relationship,
she would shut down.
Words became too heavy,
and silence felt like the only safe response.

To her, silence was survival.
But to her partner, it felt like distance—
like rejection,
like being unloved.
And little by little,
the walls she built to protect herself
threatened to destroy everything they had built together.

But despite it all…
I am lucky enough to have my woman.
She saw me—truly saw me.
She understood the roots of my silence,
the reasons behind my withdrawals,
the pain behind the patterns.

And instead of walking away when I needed her most,
she stayed.

She never gave up on loving me.
Through every shutdown, every breakdown, every moment I thought I was unlovable—
she stayed.
Not just physically,
but emotionally, spiritually.
She was there.
Everywhere.
With me.

After a month, she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder,
a name for the chaos that had controlled her life for so long.
But even with the diagnosis, the episodes grew more uncontrollable.
Her mind spiraled further into darkness,
slipping deeper into the abyss she had never learned to escape.

Most nights, her past returned like a haunting lullaby—
in her dreams, in her silence,
always creeping back when she least expected it.
She trembled in fear, waking up drenched in tears.
Her mind was her prison.

“Please, God… help me escape. Just once. Please.”

She begged, pleaded into the void.
And eventually… she found a way to cope.

Finally…
She let the blood pour from her wrists,
a response to the voices that never stopped screaming.
To feel something—anything—
to remind herself that she was still alive.
To quiet the rage
that had been building inside her for years.

The pain became a familiar companion—
a sharp contrast to the numbness,
a distraction from the chaos,
a method to silence the thoughts
in a world that had taken so much from her.

But even that wasn’t enough.
Nothing could tame the storm inside.

And so, she approached the edge—
where the pain became too much,
where hope felt like a lie.

She tried to end it.
Death felt like the only escape—
a final breath to silence the storm,
the only path to peace
she had begged the world to give her.

As the darkness closed in,
she felt something strange.
Not fear.
Not pain.
But the quiet stillness of release.

In that fleeting moment,
she didn’t just feel the silence of death—
she felt the absence of loneliness.

For a split second,
it was as if she could feel the love she had been craving all along,
the warmth of connection,
the peace she had never known.
But that moment, as beautiful and brief as it was,
was not the end.

After a year, the diagnosis changed again.
She was finally diagnosed with borderline personality disorder,
a condition that felt like a label for the chaos that had always been inside her.
The earlier misdiagnosis of bipolar disorder had shattered her,
but this new revelation was even harder to bear.

Borderline Personality Disorder isn’t something that can be easily treated.
It isn’t something that can be fixed with just medication,
and she knew that now,
she had to face the hardest battle yet—
the battle within herself.

Medications could help with the symptoms,
but the real work would require psychological intervention.
She would have to open the darkest places in her mind,
places she wasn’t ready to visit,
places she had spent her whole life trying to avoid.

The thought of digging into those shadows,
of confronting all the pain she had buried,
was terrifying.
But it was the only way forward.

And so, with a broken heart and a heavy spirit,
she knew she had no choice but to seek the help she needed.
But the journey ahead was uncertain,
and she couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever be whole again.

She lost hope.
She whispered to herself, “I can’t help myself… no one can.”
And at that moment, she truly believed it.

But if you looked a little closer—
past the chaos in her mind,
past the pain that clouded her vision—
you’d see the people who never left.
The ones who stood by her in silence.
The ones who held her hand in the dark,
even when she couldn’t see them.

She had overlooked them for so long.
Because pain makes it hard to see love,
especially when you’ve spent your life feeling unworthy of it.

But they were there.
Always.

And then she heard it—
a soft voice, maybe from within,
maybe from someone who loved her:

“Please don’t lose hope.
We need you.
Please hold on.
We can do this—together.”

Her life had been marked by abuse, neglect, and trauma—
wounds that ran deep, stories carved into her soul.
But in the end, she made a choice:
to fight back.

She chose to keep going,
to search for the light even when the darkness felt endless.
And slowly, she found it.
She found moments of joy,
laughter, she thought she’d never hear from herself again,
and peace—fragile, but real.

Despite her diagnoses—
borderline personality disorder, major depressive disorder, and post-traumatic stress disorder—
she proved that healing was possible.
That broken doesn’t mean incapable.
She learned to live,
not in spite of her struggles,
but with them.
And that was her greatest victory.

…maybe from deep inside her, or maybe from the ones who loved her most—whispering:

“You are not alone.”

It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t grand.
But it was enough.

Enough to make her pause.
Enough to make her breath hitch before the tears came pouring down.

For the first time in a long time, she let herself feel.
Not rage. Not fear. Not numbness.
But grief.
And strangely… love.

Love for the girl she used to be.
Love for the girl who survived.
Love for the girl who, even at her lowest, still hoped someone might care.

The path ahead was still messy. Still terrifying.
But maybe—just maybe—she could learn to live again.
Not just survive.
Not just exist.
But really, truly live.

Because healing doesn’t mean erasing the past.
It means holding hands with it.
It means telling that younger version of yourself:

“You made it. I’m here now. And I’ve got you.”

And so, the girl—
the woman—
the warrior,
took one more step forward.

Not because the pain was gone.
But because she wasn’t.

–        Niki

A Mental Health Memoir by Nikisha Lynne

–        This memoir is a raw and intimate reflection of my journey—through trauma, self-discovery, and the silent battles of mental health. It holds the weight of my experiences, the moments I broke, and the ones where I chose to keep going. I share this not for sympathy but for solidarity. To anyone out there fighting battles no one sees—please know you are not alone. This is for us.