God sent me a Mexican. In my time of anxiety, depression, and paranoia God sent a 5'11" angel with long black hair and scars on his arms. But God took a while.

I entered high school as the new girl in town. Socially awkward, boyish hair, baggy shirts, and sarcasm: I fantasized about blossoming into the life of the party. Fitting in didn't concern me, however, pleasing everyone encompassed my life.

Soon, advanced courses, relationship drama, family tragedies, and trying to please everyone began to weigh my heart down. Dealing with college courses and getting C's causing my anxiety to bounce off the walls. My grandpa's mountainous health problems became a true concern causing constant paranoia of death on my part, and not pleasing everyone made me feel worthless.

Going into high school, I avoided looking for love, but I guess I was a real relationship magnet. From a boyfriend thousands of miles away to a two day relationship, I began to go through boyfriends like anxiety pills. Believe me when I say, I suck at picking partners. Cheaters, brother-types, second-chances, and suicidals just sum up the peak of my relationship Hell. I dated everything, yes, everything.

So, why did I continue to date these "Prince Charmings"? I liked being noticed, I loved being loved, and I hated being alone. Break ups, no matter how long the relationship had lasted, shattered every fiber of my being. Was I not good enough? I guess not.

With each separation I grew weaker and more insecure. Soon I looked towards a knife. Despite the title, I felt like God wasn't going to do anything for me, but this knife transformed into my personal savior. Oh, sweet relief.

Second semester of sophomore year came, and I thought I'd met the one, again. He made me laugh, and we got along so well. We dated for many months, happiness flooding every momentwe spoke, and I thought that I finally discovered peace.

Then, one day, the news came.

"I'm moving," he said,

Two words, one moment, and many tears.
Again, what was wrong with me?
"God, what have I done? Why are you doing this to me?" I'd ask everyday.

The last two months of sophomore year seemed static, and the details now are faded with tears and blood. I stayed in the relationship because letting go hurt so much, but everything changed. There were no more smiles, laughs, or great moments. Our last days together filled with silence, anger, and depression, and then it finally ended, and he moved. I started doubting God, and I reverted back to my old silver friend.

Then one dull day in history class, I noticed a close friend of mine talking to the Mexican. I'd met him before, during freshman year, and we sat together at lunch. Although he didn't talk much, I felt as if we understood each other through quick glances, short hellos, and small smiles. We started texting, simple conversations, at first, but they then began to grow more elaborate. It was an everyday thing, and, of course, I began to look forward to hearing his voice and conversing with him everyday.

"Don't get attached," I'd tell myself.

Pushing him away was like trying to move mountains with a Tonka truck. It wasn't because he was charismatic or overwhelmingly fantastic with his words like previous boys had been, it was because he knew. He understood everything I had been through and what surprised me washis nonjudgmental demeanor. We both understood each other's situations and pain, even if we inflicted them upon ourselves. This understanding made me look towards hope with a new pair of eyes.

My addictions were understandable, my anxiety didn't annoy him, and my paranoia became nonexistent. My loneliness vanished. The Mexican refused to judge me. Oh, God, thank you. Finally, someone saved me.

Support, something foreign to me, seemed to be the one thing I had needed to rise above everything that happened. The best part of this realization was that I was not alone. No, I had my Mexican, my tan skin, black pants, Green Lantern t-shirt, incredibly sweet, funny, Mexican.
The Mexican pushed me out of the dark hole I had inhabited for so long. Sunlight bled onto my skin and butterflies pranced around my stomach. Pure bliss. Everything, for once, was ok.

He was not just a Mexican as I've mentioned, he was morphing into a me. Yet again, should I grow attatched?
Yes, yes I should!

I loved him. There was no doubt that I fell head over heels in love with him, and if he did not reciprocate my feelings, I would be ok, because he was my best friend, my listener, and a permanent part of my heart.

I threw away my silver friend and fell into my angel's arms.

He was not just a Mexican as I've repeatedly called him here. Neither his real name, his ethnicity, nor his past, present, or future could change the way he brightened my life.

On June 29, 2013 God sent me a Mexican and made him mine.