I grew up in a very sheltered home. My parents were protective, caring, and loving. They loved their cisgender, white daughter that they sculpted and shaped just like the perfect Michaelangeloes that they are. They sent me off to an education system that was so screwed up and highly screwed with our brains from the moment we walked in for kindergarden with our backpacks on our backs. They fed us spoonfuls of elephantine dreams that hypnotized us and gave us hope: four year universities, Straight A's, First Class Scholars. We were so oblivious and put into this trance that we all had to be cookie cutter perfect when we were younger. 

My inner demons constantly fought with my inner being, the person who I wanted to be and the person I am today. They told me to wear my hair with straight across bangs and wear ripped jeans because they were 'on fleek' and 'trendy'. They were saying I needed wear makeup, say 'This!' not 'That!', to date boys instead of girls because that was what society wanted and for me to fit in. For years and years, the demons were running around my mind and arguing with each other. They played tug of war with my journal of life and throwing colored pencils and pens at each other. Until one day it got too loud and I screamed "Enough!" They all stopped throwing pencils, ripping pages out of the journal I call my life, and they were silenced. I walked up to them and I grabbed the journal out of their claws and said, "It's my turn."

From that day forward, I knew I was finally in control of my life. I know that I am my own artist, virtuoso, composer, inventer. The page is my canvas and my Nixon number two pencil is my painbrush. I try not to create masterpieces like Monet or Picasso. I write for myself to heal my alter. I write to release the hurt and grudges I held against the people that have wronged me, to heal the wounds that have been rubbed with salt. I write to crush the guilt of being molested, to cope with the loss of my family and friends, to overcome my mental illness and my self destruction, and to most importantly be in control in my life. For years these stressors have weighted down on my chest. It has crushed my bones and has caused me to cry out like an animal. But every time I write about this pain, one by one, they cease to exist.

So to answer your question: what word describes me? Well I know who I am. I am a survivior.