I am strong. At least, that's what I try to tell myself. But am I really? I'm not particularly physically strong. I'm not exactly mentally strong. And I am definitely not emotionally strong. Still, I tell myself strength is something that I have. It's the only good I've really got to say about myself.

"Congrats, Rachel!" my brain says. "You're strong!"

"Really?" I reply in delight, flattered. "Gee, thanks!" But then my brain goes on,

"Of course, you're emotional, moody, terrible at math, and timid but you're strong!"

"…Yeah. Thanks."

"And you're a little temperamental and feel sorry for yourself too often."

"…" And by that point I'm discouraged.

I think of myself as strong. But why? I've given in to my emotions too much. I let people walk all over me. I give up easily and tend to fail at most of the things I do.

"Just face it, Alice. There's nothing strongabout you. Go live in your rabbit hole and play pretend."

No. Shut up, brain. I… I am strong.

…Right?

I was… I was strong enough to be the Switzerland in an all out war between my dearest friends. I was strong enough to speak up against that woman that so wished to control me. I was strong enough to finally get away from the place that caused me so much distress. I was strong enough to restore my trust in people, even if it is hesitant. I was strong enough to laugh when life was going to total hell for myself and everyone around me. I was strong enough to speak of self mutilation in before others with cuts burning under my shirt. I was strong enough to kick that terrible habit, even though it took a long time. I was strong enough to admit that, yes, I did swallow the pills and, yes, I did need help. I was strong enough to hold my tears until I was alone. I was strong enough to live.

I might not be exceptionally strong, but I'm certainly strong enough.

If I wasn't strong enough, I wouldn't be smiling as my fingers dance on the keyboard.

If I wasn't strong enough, I wouldn't be alive to tell my story.