The reason why I hold non-fiction dear to me is its allowance for liberty. I love how you do not necessarily need to get it right, you make the rules, it is perfect because it is true to you. So you can weave and weave without amending your story till it is finished. I was at a loss for inspiration when I came across the competition's theme; Rewards. I asked myself what is rewarding to me and how that will resonate in my piece because for what it's worth, I always leave a piece of me in my writing. That was when I knew that fiction just won't do. I needed to weave.

I started self harming at the age of 13 years old. I know why I did it, I know what caused it but I didn't know how to stop- I still don't know how to. I've come to realize that for many, the idea of hating one's existence to the point of inflicting harm on one's self is simply unfathomable. I understand that too. There wasn't much I could do to help it really, my brain is simply my greatest enemy and I starve it of what it deeply yearns for- to permanently stop functioning, to die. And in a society where topics like these are considered a taboo, you are left to struggle with yourself, for yourself. A never-ending battle. For as long as I could remember I did not find living rewarding. I did not hit milestones with an air of happiness or capture memories for posterity because there was always a constant voice in my head, unfailingly reminding me that I was here on borrowed time- one leg on Earth and the other in the afterlife, or your equivalent of it- it always felt disingenuous to willingly partake in my own life, knowing fully well that it was an act I couldn't possibly commit to. 

So my alternative was to shrink, letting the sadness consume me, feeling it in ripples and waves, breathing in and exhaling its thick and putrid air till it was all I could manifest, till it was all that I was. I tried, trust me I did. But how does one stand against the god of death? How do you face a phenomenon so perplexing you cannot even grasp? You cannot catch a thing you do not understand, you cannot wrestle down a sly snake. 

But as incomprehensibly unfathomable as death is, so is life. There is a beauty in the things we cannot humanly contain. There is incomparable magic in possibilities and hope. Hope, the little thing that saved me. I gained hope through the love I have been privileged to know. The truth about living is that it is not a solo journey, that's where I had it all wrong. I previously lived in fear of my mind and the things I would do to myself without flinching. I was scared of letting anyone else in to witness my madness, I pushed people out because I thought it would be easier for them to move on when I finally left the world. "It is easy to forget unremarkability" I'd tell myself after I created another mask to shield me and built another wall around my heart. In a way, I was just trying to protect the people I loved from the fear I constantly lived in. 

However, I was never alone. There were eyes that saw through my facade and hands that pushed through my walls- block by block, till they reached me and pulled me into salvation. I do not have a very large circle of people around me, but the ones that I do have have shown me countless times without number that they would always be here. On days that I shut the door, they wait outside till they are let back in and on days that I am not strong enough to block out the voice in my head, they clean the wounds and kiss the scars it makes on my body.

It is easy to ignore the little gifts we presently have and pine after the possibilities of the future. Many people equate rewards to monetary or social value, like a new job, financial freedom and comfort. All of these are important and a huge part of our identities as humans, but what happens during the waiting period when our dreams are yet to be fulfilled? Do we continue to just exist in dissatisfaction and waste away the gift of our life?. To live is to bask in the love that is around us and be grateful for the now, in hopes for the future. The reward for living is love.

My reward for living is the love I am blessed to have and call mine. The endless love that pours into my half empty cup and fills it with reasons to stay a little longer, to start over every time I relapse. The love in my art and how it speaks to people in a language only known to us, the love in the way the sun kisses my skin, in my sisters' warm hugs, in listening to music on cold rainy days and taking a walk. Love is my anchor and a reward I will spend my existence expressing my gratitude for. 

And on days when it is especially hard to get off of my bed, dark days where my brain plots against me, I will remind myself that I am loved and I have love to give. I will tell my soul to be at ease because we have so many things to live for, so many worlds to experience and so much love to give back. 

I know there are people just like me out there who find it hard to get through a day or feel alone. And I want to tell you that you do not have to carry this all on your own. There are people who would lift some of that weight in a heartbeat, you are not flawed or unlovable. You are not undeserving of your life. There is so much beauty waiting for you to behold, do not let the fear win because you deserve more. 

I have learnt now that there is a huge difference between existing and living. To live is to wake up everyday with the decision to enjoy what life brings you, even when it is hard. It is to feel the bad things but not let it blind you of the good things that still remain. To my 13 year old self, I apologize deeply. You did not deserve the life you experienced, you did not deserve to be treated with so much recklessness and contempt. I will spend the rest of my years being hopeful and being brave just so you know that holding on was worth it.