for being yourself

for loving someone

for being honest

for being truthful

for trusting someone


to be ridiculed is to be tortured for merely existing. for trying to live. to survive. to be you. to ridiculed means your best is not good enough because the antagonist has decided you’re the target of their torture.

Looking back, I was so readily and constantly ridiculed at such a young, malleable, tender age for just finding someone attractive. For just being a pre-teen. For just blossoming into my hormones and learning that as a human, sexuality is something that was apart of me.

I was ridiculed for having affection for someone deemed too beautiful and popular for me. For liking someone that someone else liked. For this hyperbolic, 30 person small bubble world of 6th grade that came down to who was on top of the pecking order this week.

But the fact is, the minute I was honest and divulged information about a minor pre-teen crush, was the moment my hazardous understanding of intimacy, love and relationships took fold.

Because in that moment, I was told I can’t love anyone. I was too ugly. And weird. And gross. And a list of other things 6th graders say to each other. How could anyone like me?

And it was constantly repeated to me. During the day. After school. At night.

To the point I believed it. And I inhabited that belief.


which is why I find myself still so sloppily stumbling around relationships. Because I still believe in that ridicule, that treatment, that severe conditioning of my youth that convinced me I was unworthy and too horrid to be adored by anyone.

I used to think my diagnoses as a mentally unwell person was my crutch for not being suitable for relationships…

but that’s a cop out.

It’s this pitch black hatred that formed side by side where my heart lay. Each time I loved, I also hated. Each time I felt that rush of affection and endearment, I felt that sting of unworthiness and the heavy pain of childhood tormentors. I hated myself. I believed I was unloveable. Even if I could love someone, how could they possibly love me?

That black hole still exists…it’s a nebula of broken memories and redacted feelings. But I’m hoping it shrinks.

with time.





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