I never felt good enough. I always felt out of place, like a piece of misplaced piece of furniture. Or that lone object in the room that no one knows its origin, or how long it has been sitting there. They just know that it is there. Tonight, I cried from a place in my soul that I swore I would never allow myself to return to. But on some level, I knew I had to return to that dark space. There I remind myself what I am not, so I can focus on becoming the person that I am supposed to be – so that I can end up where I am supposed to be.

This has been a lifelong, uphill battle. And it is tiring. Some days, I lose the fight. I succumb to the pull of the dark ocean of sadness and dance in its waves. Some nights, I win. I convince myself that everything is going to be ok; that I am ok and all I have to do is keep going. Just one more day. One more day.

But lets get to the real issues shall we?

I’m tired of competing. Growing up, I was the kid that was taken in {with my sister} because my mother had a hard choice she had to make. A single mother who had been in the U.S military for almost ten years but whom had never been placed on a ship. She had a decision to make. My father was a useless, selfish bastard and after the divorce, he made his choice and I am sure he slept very well at night. My mother did what she thought was best: continue her career in the military while in the interim, my grandmother took on the responsibility of taking care of us so that my mother could at least secure a future.

I don’t knock for the choice that she made. Had she not decided to stay instead of retire, who knows how our lives would have turned out. It was hard enough for her to bounce us from baby sitter to baby sitter while my father pursued other relationships with other women. My dad was a “married but single” kind of man, moreover leaving him behind did not even faze me. I don’t even think I mourned the day I saw my mother pack his things and set them out on the curb.

I did not cry the moment we boarded the plane headed for California. And when the plane touched down at LAX, the memory of what my father looked like escaped my memory. All I could focus on was what was next.

Ok now, back to “I’m tired of competing.”

I was the kid with eczema issues. The kid who made everyone uncomfortable. The kid who should have lived in a bubble. The kid I am sure no one thought would amount to anything. Was I smart? Yes. Very. Was I lazy? I prefer the term “unmotivated.” I had the type of family that supported common interests: music and sports were the top priorities. I was good at neither.

Sure I can hum a tune. And before I became a novelist, my earliest creative conceptions were lyrics. I wrote rhymes. Poems. I’d listen to a tune,  and ride the melody with my words. But…what I did still wasn’t good enough. How could the tapping of a pen compete with a cousin who resembled the 90s singer Maya and even sounded a bit like her? When she stepped into the room, eyes sparkled with hope and pride that her aspirations would manifest. And my role? To sit back, applaud with a smile and try to find something productive to do with my life.

Fast forward through my high school years when my eczema had disappeared and normal brown skin returned, I found some validation through church. I went to Sunday School and 11:00 service every week almost until I was seventeen years old and learned absolutely nothing. It was just here I was somewhat important. When I spoke people listened. People actually liked what I had to say. They believed that I would be something, do something great even. They fed me the validation I could not get. They gave me the acceptance that I did not feel. I almost found my place there.

But once again, I make people uncomfortable. The things that I find value in, made people uncomfortable. So I stopped going.

I stopped going, but I kept running.

And I ran my ass all the way to Cal- State Sonoma only because my cousin who is the same age as me was accepted into Kent State. I knew I had to get in somewhere even though I didn’t know what I was going to do. I didn’t know if I was ready. I didn’t know anything accept…I wanted to see the same looks of pride…the same joy.

But I failed after a year and returned home to the same empty shell of a home. Yes we had moments of laughter; silliness; and humorous absurdity. However this is the place that shaped me. Defined me. It was in this space that I never felt more alone than anywhere else.

And I forgot to mention…no one ever told me that I was beautiful. No one ever took interest in my extracurricular activities whether it was my internship at the local clinic, or my first and only staged performance that I worked so hard in. Do you know how depressing it was to stare out into a sea of parents and not see one of my own? Do you know how it felt for other families to enjoy seeing your star shine while your own never acknowledged that your star even exists?

It was during this phase where I learned how to be alone. In these moments I learned how to say “fuck ’em” and just do me. Here I taught myself to accept me because…there wasn’t any other way.

The most tragic moments in my life, however, began when I met my daughter’s father. I still carry the scars of that relationship. At 19 I didn’t know or understand boundaries. I didn’t know how to say no. I didn’t know what I want…I just simply didn’t know. I didn’t trust my own instincts, nor did anyone really guide me.

That man broke me. Wore me down. For someone who played the role of comedian chasing his dreams, there was nothing funny about the things he did or the shit that he said. He made me compete for his heart, and while doing so, he stripped me of my sanity.  Called me bitches whenever he could not get his way. Made me feel stupid for being a 19, 20, 21, 22 year old young woman who still so much more to learn about life. He drank. He hit. He yelled. And I stayed because for some time…

I had nowhere to go.

He embarrassed me. Made me do shit I did not enjoy. I hated sex. I cried during sex.

But still I stayed.

He drank. He smoked. He blamed me for his failings. And I took it.

I tried to help him because I thought if I helped him, I would help myself.

During his evil moments, he would remind me that he could find better. He told me there was better. I was a convenience. He needed someone to love him even though it was an illusion. He tried to snuff out my dreams, but still I dreamt. But after a while, I had to tear down old dreams to rebuild new ones just to make it through the day.

I stopped writing.

From 20 to 27 I didn’t dare attempt to bring my stories to life again out of fear that he would destroy that too. And when I finally returned to it, the levels of jealousy he demonstrated cannot be described. I felt like I was carrying on an affair, sneaking a moment or two to just escape into my words. The man acted that way with my love of books too. He hated it, resenting the fact that I could love something more than him.

The thing is, I didn’t love him. I did once…but I spent our entire relationship trying to prove to him that I wasn’t like the others that came before me. And in doing that, I allowed him to nearly kill my spirit. He fought hard to turn me into the very person I could never be…

So here I am now, damn near writing an autobiography, psychoanalyzing my moment in the shower, where I cried from the deepest depth of my soul. I silently wailed to the heavens, allowing the rush of the water to wash away my tears. I sobbed until my chest ached. I am far removed from that terrible relationship, no longer on speaking terms with him and have moved on.

Why am I like this?

Because I’m tired of competing. No one is more aware of my failings and shortcomings than I am. Some days I look at myself and wonder how I can fix me. My hair. My skin. Me. I work hard every single day to become a stronger writer. I want agents to find me. I want that book deal. I want my books on every Barnes and Noble shelf there is. I want my stories in every available Kindle purchased. I want my books in Target and Walmart. I want readers to find me and ask me, “When is your next book coming out?” Writing is all I have.

But most importantly, I want to one day look at myself and smile at the person who stares back at me in the mirror.