Have you ever feel like your life didn’t worth the effort? Like no one could love you as much as you’re ready to love them? I had all those feelings at a point in my life and I’m not afraid to speak about it anymore.

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It feels like yesterday, at this point of my life I had the lowest self-esteem I hope I’ll have in my entire life. I was doubting myself about everything and anything, I didn’t felt confident: I didn’t love myself.

In my family, we don’t really expose our feelings. My parents are not the type to talk about boyfriends and girlfriends, sex… I never had the “embarrassing talk” with them. I grow up hiding my feelings so when the thoughts of not being enough for living in this world came, I, in a way, let them grow inside me.

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I couldn’t explain why or how I came to this point of hating myself for everything I was but a part of it was certainly connected to the way I was seeing my body. I was always comparing myself to others something that destroys you slowly but surely. In school, girls were, in my eyes, perfect, they had boyfriends, beautiful bodies and hairstyles and about hundreds of followers on Instagram (that was a lot at the time), when I was sitting in the corner still waiting for my first kiss, struggling with my curly hair which I saw like a poison gift of my black heritage and my ten followers. The vicious circle started here.

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I was hating everyone for not seing how bad I was feeling, so bad I didn’t want to feel anything anymore. So, I isolated myself, probably the worst thing you could do in this case. On school breaks, I was in the bathroom alone. At night, I was crying thinking about the next day where I had to start all over again.

And then, after a fight with my parents, I tried. I tried to leave this lonely Earth which we call home. I was tired. Tired of acting like everything was ok when it wasn’t, tired of being alone, tired of fighting. You can imagine, as you are reading my story, that, fortunately, I didn’t succeed. I was stopped. By what? By my thoughts. I asked myself what do you even want to die? I realised I wanted to leave this Earth to see if someone would care. Would care about what? My death. If someone would cry at my funerals. Because it is really a death without tears? Tears of joy? Of sadness? I don’t know, just tears. I didn’t love myself so why someone would?

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It was my way of telling the world I didn’t felt good, it was my way of asking for help. Instead of hurting myself, I started to write. I first wrote to my parents, mostly my dad. I was explaining how I was feeling. Even though I never gave them, it felt like a relieve, a relieve of all these emotions I was hiding, all these emotions I didn’t want to speak about.

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Writing is now my way of expressing myself, my way of loving and embracing who I am deep down. I’m not saying that I now completely love myself and that those thoughts have leave me, maybe they never will, but when I feel it coming, I write, I let the pain, the anger, even the happiness, on paper. Writing is more than a passion for me, it’s my way of surviving life.

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Hope you'll have a beautiful day, night and life.
Lots of love, Naomi.