I remember the first time I looked into the mirror, straight into my own eyes and told myself that I wasn't beautiful.

I remember the moment when I had texted my mom that I was ugly and it was the truth.

I remember when she responded with reassurances that I wasn't and that she loved me so so much.

I remember that night, I had gotten my first shopping spree because my mom was convinced that she could buy my self worth off of the clothing racks as if it were something to be bargained with.

I remember that night I had told my mom I felt beautiful, and I'm almost positive that I only did to seal the guilt of her buying me things to make me feel better, go away.

Let me tell you, that guilt did not go away.

I remember months before, I had just started to notice how all my friends were paper thin dolls, and how their thighs didn't touch each other.

Not when they walked,

Not when they stood,

But only when they sat, and that was the only time I could accurately compare my thighs to theirs because for once, we were similar.

I remember weighing myself, and being confused as to why I was 10 pounds too heavy at the staggering 100 I was.

I was 12 years old.

 

I remember running for my life,

Literally running.

Trying to make it back to where I had began,

but couldn’t, due to the lack of oxygen that was desperately needed,

as my chest ached irrevocably so and rose to the occasion in failure,

only to fall back down with crushed hopes accompanied with shaky palms, and sweat.

Somewhere in between the shakiness and sweat lay anxiety.

Anxiety and I, we are dear old friends.

I remember telling myself that I was a horrible person, and that the reason I was struggling for air was that I was not disciplined enough.

Those words resonated for years after.

At the time, I was 15.

 

A year later, I remember shouts across the house,

where all i wanted to do was disappear, yet couldn’t.

I couldn’t leave in the moments i most needed to.

I couldn’t leave, and it killed me.

Being forced to stay in a universe that no longer felt like home to me,

took the life out of me,

dragged me down.

I felt chained to the ground, cemented.

I remember trying to block out the battle cries, blood curling screams, and door slams.

I remember holding in sobs as the death wish I had wanted for myself, was almost warranted.

And nobody knew.

Nobody knew a single thing.

I remember my thoughts torturing me.

I remember the anger, and then the calm of the waters.

It gave me hope.

I was 16, and healing slowly, but surely, and almost ready to forgive.

But not even a year had passed, and I remember confusion.

Betrayal, and abandonment.

People telling me “you are so so strong”

and that they were so proud of me.

But what I want to know, is, how can you be proud of someone, when you don’t know half of the mistakes that they’ve made.

You haven’t got a clue, not one.

You have no clue how I feel about my own self in the present here and now.

It’s been such a long journey, but I am here.

I am not a mistake, failure, or undedicated.

I am not a hideous creature to be hidden from the world, and I am not talentless.

I am not my mistakes, or my past.

I am not how others perceive me.

 

And I can tell you a million things of what I am not, but I can tell you a million and one more of what I am.

 

I am scarred and bruised, but those injuries, no longer affect me in any way shape or form.

I am a warrior, for I have been through battle after battle, and no matter how many times I have wanted to raise my white flag of surrender, I have not.

I am proud of who I am, and who I am continuing to grow to be.

I am valued, no matter how many times I try to forget that.

I am a force to be reckoned with, because if I have made it through all the turmoil, then there is nothing in this world that can stop me, because I am here,

and you can be damn sure that I am ready to fight with everything that I’ve got left in me to make it.

Because, I am unstoppable.