If you don't want to get raped, don't wear clothes that make guys want to rape you.

I think I become more furious every time my grandfather tells me to be careful or never to walk to my car alone or never to put my drink down when I'm in public. It makes me angry when I tell him every time that I can protect myself. And not because he's overprotective, although that's the joke we always make; it makes me uncontrollably angry to actually think about what it feels like to be a father absolutely terrified his daughter could be raped or killed every time she walks out the door. It makes me uncontrollably angry to think that a father has to teach his daughter not to trust men instead of teaching his son not to take advantage of any woman.

If you can't tell by now, the title of this blog post is satirical--meant to grab your attention at its outlandishness. 'Rape' is a word that elicits a very strong reaction from almost any person on whose ears it falls. So why would a twenty-year-old woman declaring that drinking too much or wearing "provocative" clothing proves a woman wants to be sexually assaulted draw you as a reader to click on that link? Because we've somehow allowed a culture to develop that avoids the significance of the action behind the word 'rape' altogether by changing the way we talk about it.

The truth is that sexual assault is any forced sexual advance without consent, regardless of the excuses or names we give for it. The truth is that we've allowed each other to make jokes about sexual consent and rape. We've allowed each other to have opinions on the type of clothes she is wearing or the number of drinks she's had or the number of people you've heard she's had sex with. We've allowed each other to say things like "I like freshmen because they'll sleep with me," and we've laughed about it like it's okay to think these things. We've developed a culture where all of these words and thoughts and practices are accepted so that we can sleep in peace at night knowing our brothers, our aunts, our boyfriends and our mentors aren't technically rapists--that the one in four women who are sexually assaulted in college, most oftentimes by someone they trust, don't have to be real until we talk about them.

So instead we've just accepted that sexual violence happens and let it instill fear in us. And we've let that fear create a culture in our country that women are either too fragile or too stupid to make decisions about their bodies. We've done it for so long that most women even believe it's our job not to tempt men to assault us. We've allowed a culture that men, or any individual regardless of gender or sexual orientation, deserve a yes. That they are entitled to consent to satisfy their needs. That a yes is implied. That even if she says no or if she says nothing at all, you can still take what you want and excuse yourself on the premise that she didn't stop you. Because it isn't rape if she didn't try to stop you.

The culture that allows us to say or do anything rooted in sexual entitlement, victim-blaming or interpersonal violence for any reason and in any situation is a grossly over-accepted norm. You do not have a right to my consent. And 'no' does not mean 'no.' Because "she didn't say no" and "I thought she liked it" should not be a part of the conversation we even reach. It starts so far before victim-blaming that any person or institution who questions a victim is almost embarrassing itself and certainly reinforcing this culture. Forcing yourself on any person who does not explicitly tell you they want you to, is rape. If I'm not making myself clear, let me do you one better: you don't get to get off unless he or she wants you to. Period. And sexual assault and the culture that accepts it and excuses it have to stop being the norm.

So quit hiding behind your arrogance and your entitlement and live up to what you are. Quit laughing at your friend's borderline-creepy-rapist jokes. Quit spewing statistics that blame fraternity men or black men or white women or parents or peer pressure or alcohol or the media or the girl that is now too scared to speak up. Quit trying to brush aside the thousands of individuals standing up to this culture because I promise you we aren't going anywhere.

As I've said before, it's not until people are no longer afraid to talk about something that any truth or hope can be found in it.

I wrote another social norm-breaking thing about mental health that is also kinda long

A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog post titled This is my Not Suicide Letter. Whether or not you read it or had an opinion on it is completely up to you, and since then I've had an overwhelming number of people reach out to me either with how my letter affected them or to support me despite not understanding. I'm generally aware of others and the reactions and perceptions they both proudly display and, more interestingly, hide, so I knew that posting something so blatantly honest will always generate opinions different than my own. I won't call them unwarranted or unsolicited because no writer or user of social media and freedom of speech should be closed to independent thought, especially in response to his or her own independent thought. And as a bleeding-heart liberal hippie, I welcome those different opinions as a challenge and a lesson as long as those opinions are respectful to human dignity and individuality.

However, I don't think I was prepared for how overwhelming the internet's reaction would be. At first I didn't know how to adequately respond to every person that confronted me with the empathy or attention or honesty they deserved. I didn't know how to listen to their stories and have my ADHD thoughts be enough. As time went on, I became increasingly aware of simple acknowledgments, especially"shares," that were a very tangible reminder of the point of my letter--that so many people suffer quietly and alone; and of course there were other, more passive aggressive opinions from people whose names I've never even heard. And as if telling your deepest, darkest secrets to the world isn't scary enough, seeing how far those secrets reach and accepting that every person will have an opinion I have no control over is nothing short of absolutely terrifying. But the point of this post isn't to explain myself or retract the things I said or apologize to anyone. (Lolol do you know me at all?)

My Not Suicide Letter is, in essence, the most raw illustration of who I am. And when I say that, I'm not referring to depression. I am not mental illness. I'm also not despite mental illness or overcoming mental illness. I am just everything that I've got and everything that I give. I'm blatantly honest all of the time, and I want everyone to understand themselves the way I understand them because I think life is hard enough without lying to others and lying to ourselves. Sometimes I'm stupid and it backfires, and sometimes I hurt people I care about, and honestly I still have a hell of lot of figuring out how to be the best version of myself, so thank God I'm only twenty and can use that as an excuse for being a hot mess.

It's been almost a month since I wrote to tell you that I'm severely depressed with suicidal tendencies that terrify me and everyone around me.

I know. Still as shocking the second time you read it. Truthfully, it's shocking no matter how many times you read it (...don't ask me for that number). I'm also a writer, a speaker and a listener. I'm a leader, an activist, a feminist, an artist, an over-analyzer, a six-year-old and sometimes a pain in the ass. I want to do everything and learn everything and discuss everything and live everywhere and experience every ounce of beauty in this world. And I love life. I think that one is especially important because I did just tell the world I've been depressed for six years and have been suicidal for large chunks of that time. But I love life. I love it precisely because of its infinite complexity and variety. I love the beauty and ugliness of the world, and I love that every person knows at least one thing I don't. I hope that every day for the next 70 years I find at least one thing that fascinates me (which is not that hard because I am six and literally get distracted by shiny objects and fluffy things).

I am not my mental illness. I want to achieve everything I just said even on days when that's just not possible for me. I told the world about my battle a month ago, and I'm still here. I didn't go anywhere, and I'm not shoving it back under my bed. I don't expect everyone to pretend it didn't happen because it's real, and I'm still fighting it everyday. I promised you that I would hold myself accountable to every other person wanting to give up. And you may not understand why that's enough for me, but that's because it's my battle. Depression and anxiety manifest in very specific ways universally, and there are very general ways to treat them both. But at some point you realize that you can't avoid yourself anymore and that the things you've been through that you've been ignoring aren't going away from wishing, hoping, coping, or (prescribed or self) medication. I'm not going to tell you that stupid, frustrating cliche about "happiness starting from within" or "you're the only person who can control your happiness" or whatever people tell you when they don't understand or know what to say. I'm not gonna do that because I can't. Because no one knows your experience, and no one ever will.

What I am going to tell you is that everything, not just happiness, starts from within. And the depression or anxiety or stress or insecurities or whatever you've got going on, it is all in your head. *gasp, she said something ignorant and insensitive* I didn't because it is exactly in your head. But no matter how many times you've been told to control it, you can't because how in the hell are you supposed to control the organ that runs our entire existence? I promise you aren't aware of most of the things that go on in there. And on your own, you can't be. I've tried, and it makes a confusing mess of everything. But thankfully there are some really smart people in the mental health field who get it even more than you do and certainly more than the people around you do.

I wrote my Not Suicide Letter because I realized that my sense of responsibility to everyone and everything is my biggest weapon against a disease whose biggest weapon is silence. I wrote it to be a voice against that silence. I wrote it hoping that my courage might help anyone suffering in silence find their own courage to speak. Honestly, I wrote it because I've watched something that sucks--the antiquated mental health stigma--take root in our society, and I just want to change the world. Even if it's just one person's world, it's their whole world and that's all they get. Because our worlds collide with other people's worlds every day, but they're still separate worlds. And my friends and I may think on the same wavelength, but my world needs to be nurtured in a completely different way than theirs and creates completely different wonders than theirs.

So, I hope that my first letter gave at least one of you courage, and I hope it gave those outside of the disease some sort of insight--with which, do what you will. This time I hope that if you take one thing from my rambling, mental illness or not, you consider the idea that your world will collide almost constantly with all of the people in your life, but you can't possibly compare your world to theirs. It's a waste of energy, a waste of time and frankly, irrelevant. Each person needs to find a different way to fight their monsters. You are you, and it's nobody's job to figure out how to live with you but your own. We all have to put out our own fires, and that is the most important thing in your world. Writing a blatantly honest blog post may not be how you put out that fire. "Just not thinking about" the bad stuff may not work for you either. You're the only person who can figure out what you need, and you can only fight your own monsters.

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day. It comes and goes every year, and very brave people tell their stories or make a vocal declaration of support for those who feel like they are losing the battle. But the fact is, that's just not enough. The individuals suffering enough to consider ending their lives, and those we've lost already, don't need one day of bravery. We need an open conversation. Frankly, we need an attitude and a reality check.

So this year I want to do it a little differently. I'm just one tiny (literally, I'm 5'1") person, and what I say may not make the kind of changes I plan to make, but this conversation is important enough to try. I want to challenge every person who has had suicidal thoughts or is even just sad and alone and afraid to talk to at least one person. Fight that weapon of silence because I promise that it does nothing but make you feel alone when you aren't. And to every person who doesn't understand or agree with or believe in the gravity of mental illness and/or the complexity of suicide, I want to challenge you to consider that a person suffering is the only person best equipped to fight their monsters, and you only matter in that fight if you play whatever role they need.

One day a year where the words "mental illness," "depression," "suicide," et al. are not taboo is just not enough. A fraction of those suffering making a gut-wrenching decision to face judgment is not enough. Your friends, mothers, sisters, uncles, classmates, coworkers and significant others spending all of their energy every day to hide a darkness and emptiness that already takes everything from you is not enough. Not wanting to deal with the reality and truth of mental illness around you because it makes you uncomfortable is not enough. Not for the thousands of years and experiences unlived and not for the thousands an inch away from the cliff. So I say no.

This is my Not Suicide Letter

I’m that girl that everybody knows. You talk to me on campus or see me on Facebook or Twitter and think “she’s one of the happiest, most carefree (possibly even most annoying) people I know.” I smile, and I laugh, and I talk too much too fast and I encourage others, and sometimes I don’t even have to lie to myself to do it. But it’s the times you don’t see me that would scare you. By nature, I’m an introvert. I draw my energy from time alone with my thoughts or a book or a canvas. But almost always, that alone time I crave is my worst enemy. I’m 20-years-old, and I suffer from Major Depressive Disorder, ADHD and active suicidal ideation. I used to hate the term “suffer from depression” because it made me feel weak. It made me feel like I couldn’t control it. Like it owned me. Like I was, in fact, mentally ill. I spent most of my adolescent life convinced that if I admitted to myself or anyone else I was depressed, that somehow everything I’ve worked for and everything I have amounted to would suddenly vanish—or at least somehow mean less.

Mental illness and suffering have never been strangers to me. To those of you whom have known me most of my life, it isn’t much of a secret anymore that my mother is mentally ill and hasn’t ever really been a constant in my life outside of a catalyst for turmoil. She is diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and Borderline Personality Disorder, and I am 100% certain that to this day, I have no idea who she is. Those who know me a little better know that every action I take is an inverse reaction to the decisions she has made. But those few who know me the most know that no matter how far I detach myself from what she is, I am my mother’s daughter and I do suffer from mental illness.

I’ve battled with depression for six years. But this Not Suicide Letter was created from the darkest part of my life, which started on January 1^st, 2014 when my passive suicidal thoughts turned into a calculated decision to end my life and continues to this very moment as I type. I’ll spare the internet the details, but I would like to give those who don’t understand the suicidal impulse a glimpse into a mind that spends almost every second of every day attacking itself. If a friend were to describe me in five words, the words would probably be passionate, honest, confident, strong and conversational. I don’t think I’ve ever gone a year without some sort of leadership role, and I don’t give up on relationships because I invest myself wholly in everything I do. I work too hard, I put too much pressure on myself, but I do it because it’s what I love to do. Nothing fulfills me more than living up to my responsibilities and changing the world. So how could someone with so much talent, so much potential and so many unimaginably strong relationships think it’s okay to just give up? Because although I am fully aware of and grateful for my blessings, all of what I just described is irrelevant. In life, you can spend your time giving to others and caring about others as I have done and will continue to do, but it took me nineteen years to realize that what matters most is myself. The purpose of 80-100 years on this earth is to live, and a part of really living is being happy. And if your brain is telling you every day that you can’t achieve that, then what is the point of existing? What’s the point of struggling to get out of bed every day for the next 60 years?

Now, before my friends show up at my door and my family starts saying their rosaries and never letting me out of their sight, keep reading.

I’ve spent my whole life being told to keep things like my depression or my mother’s bipolar disorder or anything that might not be considered “normal” to myself. To tiptoe around people because they’ll look down on me and ultimately because I’m not labeled the way they want me to be. I’m writing today to say that’s stupid. It’s bullshit, and I’m not doing it anymore. We’re so scared of being labeled “not normal” because we live in a world that is so afraid of losing control, so afraid of the unknown, that we extinguish any difference at first sight. Society is always going to compartmentalize people that are by nature so inexplicably different from one another. The world is so rejecting of difference solely because we keep it that way.

I am that happy, carefree girl who talks too much and doesn’t care what other people think of her. Or at least I was at one point, and I think she’s still in there somewhere. I’ve been trying for six years to find her. Some days she pokes her head out and reminds me of all the good I’ve done in the world and all the good I know I can do in the future just long enough for me to make it to tomorrow. I want every person who suffers from depression and every person who doesn't to know that it sucks. You feel so completely alone even when you aren’t. Sometimes it takes you two hours to get out of bed for work or for class or even to hang out with friends, and most of the time the darkness wins and you just stay in bed. It takes you hostage for weeks or months or years at a time and tells you that it’s never letting go. It tells you over and over that you aren’t strong enough. That happiness is a figment of your imagination and that living in misery is no better or worse than dying in it. It squeezes out everything that makes you you until you don't even know who that person is anymore. It weighs on you so heavy and surrounds you entirely, telling you things that make sense to you that the rest of the world couldn’t possibly believe. Your friends, your parents, your aunts and uncles, your teachers—they tell you that it’s all in your head. That happiness starts from within, and that everything will be okay "in time." They tell you to just get over it, or they try to be supportive in the only way they know how by telling you that you’re not alone.

But the truth is you are alone. One in ten Americans suffers from depression, and no matter what support groups, therapists, family or friends you are surrounded by, you are utterly and completely alone because that’s what depression does, and that’s all it wants to do. It sucks. And no one outside of the disease gets it. You can’t just be happy, even if you spend every second of eternity willing yourself to be.

So from now on, I say no. No to pretending like it doesn’t exist. No to allowing the fear of rejection to keep people suffering alone in the dark. Because mental health is too important of an issue to ignore any longer. Because the brain is so amazingly capable and it’s okay to admit that it kinda hates you a little bit. It’s okay to seek help. It’s okay to tell people, and I actually encourage it. It’s not until people are no longer afraid to talk about something that any truth or hope can be found in it. After January 1^st, 2014, I finally decided that I can’t do this on my own, and that I want to be myself again, whoever that person is. For anyone who feels that asking for help or admitting you’re depressed is weakness or for anyone who is afraid of the way your peers will look at you, fear is not worth it. Life is actually really beautiful, and if you don’t trust the people who don’t understand what depression is like, trust me.

I want to be able to give you a success story, but my story is still in progress. Mental illness isn’t something that ever really goes away, and it takes the strongest kind of person to live an actual life with it. I want to be able to tell you it gets better. I want to be able to tell you how to get through it. I want to be able to tell you that there is some specific hill you cross over to get out of the darkness forever. I want to be able to tell you all these things because I want to be able to tell them to myself. But after six years, I’ve learned that there isn’t. I’ve learned that the clichés don’t ever really work and that hope only lasts for so long. What I will tell you is that I’m admitting all of this for all of the internet to see because I’m relying on you to support me. I’m holding myself accountable to every person reading this letter because being alone in the dark does nothing but make me feel weak and small and and a danger to myself. I can’t do this on my own, and I don’t want you to either. Depression isn’t something people should be shoving under the bed because no one suffering from it should ever have to feel more alone than they already do.

You are not sick. You are not crazy. You are not messed up. You are not worth less than your friends that can just be happy. You are gifted. Grief is too beautiful of a human characteristic to take for granted. We wouldn’t be capable of accepting and understanding life without it. Hurting makes us human. Rather than going through the days numb to the unimaginable wonders of the world, the ability and depth to which we hurt allows us to see more clearly the beauty that is humanity. Pain makes life worth it, not the other way around. To those less skilled in the art of suffering, pain is weakness. But to those who fight every day to find the will to live, your strength opens wider the opportunity to truly get the most out of life. And why give up on something you’re being specially trained for?