I don’t remember a time when I didn’t hate myself.

My father walked out when I was three, and I didn’t have any contact with him again until I was 10 or 11. I believe that gave me the idea that I wasn’t worthy of love or respect. I hated the way I looked. Instead of dark curly hair I wanted straight blond hair. Instead of hazel eyes I wanted blue ones. I wanted to be tall instead of short. I wanted to think like normal kids and fit in socially. I felt dumb and did poorly in school. I did really well in university, but before that I was not a good student, and compared myself with others who seemed to effortlessly write good essays and do well on tests.

I was always so scared, especially of being murdered or kidnapped. Everyone laughed off my fears, and no one talked about my father. No room was made for my devastation about his disappearance. My mom would tell me we were better off without him, that she had given him an out and he’d taken it. But I would cry at night and ask why he left me and why he didn’t love me. I don’t remember ever being reassured that I was good enough, that I was worthy of love, even if he wasn’t there.

These wounds are so old and yet so deep. I am really hopeful that the work I am doing in and out of therapy will help me to heal. I want a second chance at a happy life. I can see it, but it’s on the other side of that mountain I don’t know how to climb. I think that by writing this, and interacting with you is a concrete step I am taking. But there are just so many of them that need taking…