Nothingness. It’s empty. On some level, I have always been this way. I have asked myself, “Why?” more times than the amount of tears that have fallen down my cheeks when I think no one can hear. Now, I think that it’s not a question of “why” but rather a statement. Why. There is no real reason as to why anyone could feel this way. At least, no one reason. For some, there are multiple. But for me, there’s nothing. 

 I started crying in the shower in sixth grade. I hoped that the pounding of the water on my back and the ceramic tub would drown out my sobs. My tears blended in with the droplets on the wall, dripping slowly, making their way into the drain. Thoughts swirled around my mind, making me feel dizzy and unworthy. Useless, even. All I could do was cry. As I look back, I can recollect times in my life where moments like this are more apparent now than at the time it occurred.

It has always been a struggle of, “am I shaking because I’m cold or nervous?” even in the melting, disgusting heat of the Texas summers. I never even knew what I was I nervous about. I needed to impress (whom?). My job was to please everyone, but how was I supposed to do that when Mother Nature never dresses in the same outfit twice? Why believe in God, when I didn’t even believe in myself? The constant struggle of “Did I or did I not? Am I or am I not?” tore me down every second of every minute. Every day and every night. I felt pain, so I knew that I was alive, but I wondered if it was better to feel that way all the time or to feel numb. I wondered which was healthier. I felt like a broken machine. Not worthless, just there. I wanted to be fixed, but I didn’t know exactly what was broken. Put me back together. Make me feel alive, make me feel human. My destiny to fulfill the childhood fable of Humpty Dumpty was realized.  

The worst times were the nights. As I fell asleep each night, I could hear my thoughts bouncing around in my head to the beat of my ragged, trying breaths. I once even shut myself in my closet in an attempt to mask the sound of my cries. I laid in a ball on the cold wooden floor.  Each racking sob only fueled my throbbing headache, but I couldn’t stop myself. I desperately tried to message my friend for help, but my vision was blurry and I knew she wouldn’t understand. I learned the cutting lesson of loneliness that painful day in the seventh grade. It was at that point which I started to feel truly, achingly alone.

   Sometimes, I didn’t even know why I was crying. There were unknown fears, anxieties, and emotions locked away in the most unreachable corner of my mind, rattling the cage and dragging their chains, chanting their nothings, scaring my heart and making it run. For a while, the biggest problem was - drumroll, please - myself. Simple as that. Myself. Her. I would look into the mirror at night, staring into the timid, unfamiliar gaze of the other girl. I could not feel the touch of my own fingertips. Didn’t recognize my own voice. I mainly felt numb. To what, I don’t know. But I was just tired. Desensitized to all the pain. Felt unneeded. Not really a burden, but more of an empty space. A blank canvas, but one that was ripped and unusable. Cannot be recycled. I told myself that I just wanted attention. That my thoughts were fake. Anything to avoid confrontation. I wrote so many poems to figure myself out. But pretty words and worn-out metaphors did nothing to solve my problems. 

 It’s not that I hated myself. I just didn’t love myself. I struggled with this aspect of my life a lot. I had a mental list titled, “Broken Parts” and I memorized the entirety.

 In the early months of 2019, I had an epiphany. I can attribute this change to the music I started to listen to. I felt understood. Cared for. My attitude changed for the better. Of course, I still have fears and doubts. The difference is that now I take steps to follow through with the things I want to do; the things I never would have done back then. I no longer care about wearing makeup to school because if I want to learn to love myself, I need to do so without all the glamor and shine first; to love me for me, inside and out. I needed to love myself shamelessly, and I have definitely improved. Life is so much more fun when I live it without a care of what people think of me, or my hobbies, or the things that make myself happy. 

I still struggle with other things, but now I can confront them head-on, knowing that I have an army of supporters, including myself - the most important one. My own skin - my own mind - is no longer the barrier that blocks me from hugging the people I love. My eyes do not have a filter that prevents me from seeing what’s real. My tears don’t blend in with water droplets from the shower head. I love myself. At least, I’m trying to. I live to love. I understand now that I do not need to be perfect to be enough. That is what matters the most.