Growing up with an abusive single parent was, as an understatement, unhealthy. I grew up through years of being screamed at, insulted, and demeaned. I was frequently told that I was good for nothing and would always be a failure.
It took a lot of time for me to climb out of that dark abyss. I kept putting on a bright smile on the outside, and when people found out that it was often masking something else, they were frequently shocked. People, I found, were often very good at judging.
Through years of depression, tenuous health, and teetering over that frightening dark place where one often lost the will to live, I still somehow clung on. And to this end, I had to tell myself that I knew that I was doing my best, that no matter what anyone else told me, I was being the best person I could be.
Being the best wasn't a thing of pride. It was of survival. It was a mantra that spurred me on from one slippery stepping stone to the next. Finding what I loved to do and doing it well made me strive to be better. I knew that despite the many people who kept trying to throw negativity at my fight for survival, underneath I was being the best person I can be.
Being the best wasn't a figure of relativity, it was not a ruler to outcompete or compare. It was a basic fundamental of being a good person, of being the 'goodest' but grammatically meant the best.
So whenever I find myself holding up the broken pieces that constitute my life, I remember that even pieced together with visible cracks, I will always strive to be the best; I am the best.
