January 6th, 2014. I woke up disoriented. My head pounded, I was sick to my stomach, and I was covered in my own blood. This was the first time I tried to kill myself. I have made two more attempts since then. I am not proud of this fact, but I will not hide it. Since then, I have transitioned into a new person. My perspective on life has changed. With the circumstances involved, I should not be here today. It was a miracle I woke up after the damage I inflicted, and I am forever grateful.

In the time since my last attempt, I have learned a lot about who I am. I have dug into the deepest, darkest parts of my own mind, in order to find a positive outcome. I have faced my insecurities, my weaknesses, and even my strengths. One aspect of myself falls under all three of these categories, that being that I do not love myself. This is something I have accepted a while ago. At times, I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt that this does not bother me. I thought I would be distraught at the mere fact that I do not posses self worth, but I feel no remorse on the matter. This has strongly influenced my life over the past 17 years. No, I am not saying I have hated myself my entire life, there was a time when I was young that I was filled with awe and wonder, and I loved the world and all that inhabit it, but the time since has been tainted.

There is a phrase that I have heard many times, and it never held any significance until recently: you cannot love others, until you love yourself. I have dismissed this thought in the past; I have felt love for others, and it was real. It was wonderful, and lovely, and it hurt. If it did not hurt, it would not have been real, but there was something that I ached for, almost as much as I ached for the boy who lived down the street. What I craved was his love. He gave me the love I could never give myself. He made me feel wanted, and he gave me the value I was unable to give myself, the value I am still unable to give myself.

Even when I was given love greater than I could imagine, something was still missing. Even when he gave me his all, it could never fully satisfy the love I craved. I had to love myself first, in order to reciprocate it in the way he deserved. I am not saying I did not love him, I opened my heart and soul, and poured it out on his doorstep, but it would have never been enough. I have come to notice this in all my relations, platonic and romantic. Without the ability to love myself, I can never truly love others the way they deserve. I think the world of those whom I love and care for, but I will never be able to show them this until I accept and love myself for who I am, and I fear that I may never be able to do so.