2026 – Lydia Wright – Mountain Crest High School HS

Who Am I?

Who Am I?

Gone. Those crimson red and inky blue lights swirled into that night are seared into my memory. I’ve tried to imagine what it would have been like or looked like, but all I can see is her plastered to the ground. My sister was seventeen, I am now seventeen. She had been drug under the car that day and split down the center which ripped half her body, half of my life away from me that night. My grief is not linear. A creature engulfed my life that night, it tightened my thoughts like a noose, comparison burrowed into my life, and it was imperative I found help.

 

I remember the first time. I mined through the draws for my weapon. My mind was numb and I faced the race for the dopamine and escape. I was disgusted with myself, each thought more bitter than the last.  Never enough, simply disgusting, terrible girl. Self loathing ripped into my mind and swirled my vision. My mind froze, my throat scratched for air, and I remember holding the razor, wanting to cut it all out, the delicious escape of a blade gleamed in my palms screaming at me to embellish lines deep into my tissue. The sandstorm of questions engulfed me: My sister is gone. My cousin had attempted, hospitalized, and yet it always made me wonder, who am I?

 I held the blade against the snow canvas of my skin, my understanding curdled as the desire dragged over me. I wanted the ooze of blood, the wrench of bursted skin, and the spatter bash of blackness. My mirror flashed the sight of murderous, bloodshot eyes which glared repulsed at the realization of what monster had taken form. 

I thrashed the razor down and picked up the paintbrush. I started dipping the bristles into cool emerald liquid and slithered it against my skin. The conscience in me screamed for justice, and yet I smudged on the fluid like armor. Each painting tore into my skin, my broken mind, and crickled it tightly together when it dried. It is better than the lines actually skewered into my flesh. This attack on myself I could scrape off without questions. Soon, the person before me was not a human at all, but a blubbered person who caved. My comparisons, my hopes, my isolation, my worsened depression, my crippling anxiety, my destructive nature, all sat in this shriveled frame of the person shattered, with gashes of despair, erupting with a question “Who am I?” 

A Monster.

 

Self-harm was not the first thing I resorted to in my journey. My hair was a monstrous nest of memories.  “She looked just like her from behind!” My father declared as my bronzed roots slithered their way into the conversation. I was the second chance, the carbon copy, the Emily in another body, the sister who was less than, and more at the same time. 

The leaves crunched underneath my soles as I walked up to the frigid hairdressers door. The rich leather mirrored my hair as I let it unfold from its bun. My hair was pinned and snapped into the crisp silver foils of paper formed by the hairdresser. Words swished out of my mouth. “She’s gone.” Memories of my older sister swam into my eyes and consumed me. Same hair, same laugh, same girl? Gone. The woman slashed at the split roots and chocolate covered strands reduced to frizzled pasta. My hair was all gone, I was gone, she was gone. Her hair still haunted me, a ghostly memory I would never be able to catch again. And soon the question scratched at my heart. “Who am I ?”

 I am not my sister. 

 

Comparison had been driven into my life months after this event. “She is always perfect.” my uncle repeatedly declared. The words smacked into my world like a bolt of lightning of how much he did not understand. My year had not gone to plan, it hung by the threads of a final lifeline. I fell into the mindless traps that others deemed “successful.” I hard wired my life with the praises of the nursing assistant, class president, and even varsity player. 

 

Nothing was enough. 

 

Each accomplishment was more weight to my life, instead of anchoring it down it dragged me further into despair, and more work. I felt ranked through. And again, comparison to Emily snuck in. I was the girl who didn’t dance but wanted to, the girl who forgot how to laugh but wanted to, and the girl who could never work hard enough to catch the ghost of perfection. Even my closest friends could not see past my defective mask of accomplishment. 

Then, my panic attacks set in. The involuntary crunch of muscle to skin would creak when the secrets weighed heavily. Physically convulsing my body into a donut of a human unable to move. The fierce isolation consumed my life, and threatened to burst from my cavern of secrets. 

Pornography. The first time I read it resulted in my first attempt at self harm. This haunted my daily life. It changed everything, it infiltrated the way I dressed, spoke, and thought of people. I knew it was wrong, but I still read it. Each time was a release from my pressures. I could be curious, transfer my rage, lust, and desires into it. At times I would want to dress a certain way to get attention. Other times I would catch myself incredibly angry with my family when they interrupted me. Then, I found that the way I thought of others had been altered. As a religious person, not only did I betray my faith but my core values, family, and ultimately myself. 

 Suicide, self harm, pornography, and depression. Each ambush echoed panic that threatened to ram out the truth of the “perfect girl” and reveal the fragmented and broken girl inside. Who am I? 

I am not perfect.

 

In the time I needed for help, champions and heroes come in all shapes and sizes. For me they came through a giant, a bat, and a fairy. In each session with my councilors, the truth spilled out my mouth sapping into the wooden desks, clacks of computers, and the cavity of earlobes. 

My school councilor Dave was a gleaming giant of a man who helped me navigate school from the beginning. He was not only a councilor, but a friend. In my mind he is a teddy bear who listens, and comforts me through my first steps of high school. He has helped me through my shambles of life through a debt I can never repay. He is constantly helping me navigate the path of schoolwork and how to balance it with my life. 

Then, my social worker arrived in the form of a glamorous bat named Alayna. She dives into the caverns of darkness of my world encompassing all I am. Crying, laughing, coloring all is slowly pulling out the strands that reminds me life is definitely “not perfect, but it is manageable.” 

Finally, the fantastic fairy Anna. My therapist is working with me for months at a time fluttering into books of understanding, and knowledge of mental health, and healing. She helps me find the treasures of coping skills and which truly work and are holding value for me. Pieces such as writing, safety plans, or simply talking has brought me back into a new understanding of why life is worth living. 

My heroes helped me build my personal battle armor used to conquer school, my anxiety, and my thoughts. Mostly, they each brought me closer to an understanding of “who I am.” 

I am Healing.

 

Much of my healing is not linear and it takes tremendous effort. Many of my days have various recipes; A handful of humor, a few cups of kindness, and lots are now filled with heaping mountains of gratitude. Numerous events display this balanced dish. One of my favorites is the cool brush of wind, and the thump of my heartbeat, all falling into the melodic rhythm of running. A unique ingredient that spotlighted that rushing adventure was the plum fade of the sky, the rippling wind, and the sandpaper cow’s tongue slicking across its own behind. 

Truthfully, the misunderstanding, loss of myself, Emily, and the pedestal of who I wanted to be, all built up to the point of healing, and who I am every single day. So this begs the question, “Who am I?” 

The truth is, I am alive.