There are many moments in my life when I felt small. The time that my eighth grade best friend lied to me about being with my ex-boyfriend. The time when I felt as if my ninth grade best friend was choosing popularity over me. The time that my ex-boyfriend didn't sit with me at a football game, the time that the same boy didn't show up to my house after I had been sitting outside for half an hour, that time that the same boy lied about his reasons for breaking up with me, the many times that boy snapchatted me over the next forty months without apologizing for anything, not once. The times when people made themselves big in high school. Those people who needed the credit, those people who felt very big in themselves, all they really did was make me small. The many times that a loved one wrote hurtful comments about me on Facebook. The multiple times that my ex-boyfriend reminded me that he wouldn't have dated a girl like me in high school. (What kind of girl was that? I could only think of the fact that I was never very popular in high school, how I was never the one to date a football player, how I was never the superlative. Was that what he meant? Did I not measure up to any standard?) When that same boy gave me all of the cliché reasons for breaking up with me without meaning a single one. He wasn't supposed to try to comfort me, my mom was. I felt so small.

And I let myself feel small. I let myself curl up into the ball that is my coping mechanism. I let myself nibble on my hair and my fingernails, the nude nail polish chipping onto my tongue. I let myself stay small. All of those things that happened, I found myself at fault. Somehow it was my problem for not being enough for those best friends or those boyfriends. I needed to be more, be different, be small so they could be big. I don't like when people are mad at me. I didn't want them to be mad at me, no matter how mad I was at them. I didn't want them to raise their voices. I didn't need them telling me that I was wrong; I already felt like I was.

And I hate that I didn't ask for their apology. I hate that I never told them of my bigness. Because I didn't tell them, I cannot seem to tell myself. Nikita Gill wrote, "You need to convince your mind that it has to let go... because your heart already knows how to heal," and my mind cannot give up. My mind cannot give up this worthlessness that consumes my thoughts. I don't want to be so sad. I don't want to have to ask people to help with my sadness. I don't want to force other people to deal with this worthlessness. I am so easily frustrated with myself. I am mad at someone, and I am mad at being mad, and I am mad because I am not supposed to be frustrated with myself. And then I cry. And then I stay in bed, and I never forgive myself, and I let all of my frustrations pile upon my heart.

My heart has gotten over those many people. They do not get in the way of me loving others. But I can't let go of the smallness that they, and other people, gave me. And maybe they didn't give it to me purposefully. Maybe it wasn't all their actions that gave me this smallness. Maybe it was my head, all of my own thoughts, in reaction to anything that happened. Maybe it didn't really have to do with those people. But it is here, and I wish I could still ignore it. The metal slide that I slip down is hot against my thighs. It pulls at my skin as I fall. I can't seem to get off. I can't seem to forget all of these thoughts about my smallness and my grudges that have come to my attention. I can't seem to do anything other than lose my mind.

I was so worried about not being enough for anyone else, that I began believing that I am not enough for myself. And it's the worst feeling in the world. I am tired of fighting myself. I want to be big. I want to believe in my bigness. I want to believe in my ability to move mountains. I want to be able to yell at people, to tell them how they hurt me, to expect apologies from ones I love. I want to take up space on sidewalks and elevators and tables. I want to take up space in my own head. And I don't want to apologize for taking that space. The metal is hot against my thighs, and I see the end, but there is time between where I am and where I want to go. There is struggle between fighting myself and forgiving myself. There is discomfort between tripping over my feelings and loving myself.

It all hurts so much, but I cannot seem to let it go.

I feel myself crumbling.

I cannot forgive myself, not yet. I am not there yet. But someday, I hope to move mountains.