For the largest part of my life I was convinced I was broken beyond repair. I wasn’t being dramatic. I had proof: my behavior was self-destructive, in my relationships I was afraid to be myself, I was constantly exhausted, showing up at work was a daily struggle, and my family history is filled with addiction, neglect and mental health problems.

Years of therapy didn’t seem to help, neither did medication. I had good moments, but below the surface I was miserable and nothing could provide me with any prospect of improvement. I had to just accept being broken.

In one of my lowest moments I asked my doctor to refer me to a psychiatrist. She gave me two names. I called one of them, not expecting much.

It was a long, painful and slow process, but that psychiatrist gave me something I had never had: hope. For the first time I am excited to explore my life, see what the future brings. He made me see that I had been wrong all along. I am not broken. I never was.

If you would have described my current life to forty-year old me, I would have called you a fool. But here I am, thriving, proud of the collection of paintings that tells my story of not being broken after all.