I live in an average house on an average street in your average suburb. I didn’t have this amazing ability in any sports nor instruments. I didn’t feel that I was a very good singer. I didn’t believe I would ever a very good author. I found myself completely average beyond your wildest dreams. The only thing extraordinary about me was my insecurity.

I remember the day it all changed for me. I don’t remember where I was coming from or where I was going. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. All that matters in the in between. I was a confident fourth grader who loved to sing, to dance, and make up songs with her best friend. I wasn’t afraid to talk to anyone. I would talk a perfect stranger’s ear off if he let me.

I turned to my friend standing in line behind me. I asked her plainly, “Do you think I’m a good singer?” She stood there and looked at me for a second as I confidently awaited her answer. To be honest, I was simply fishing for a compliment. I knew I was a good singer. My mother and teachers had always told me so. “You’re not bad, but I wouldn’t hire you for my birthday party,” she replied in the blunt way only children can. My heart dropped to my stomach and I could actually feel the tears coming. “Oh,” I replied, “Thank you for being honest.” Crack. That was the first time my heart was broken by something someone had said.

From then on, I was much more aware—more sensitive—to what people had to say about me. I had a bully call me a nerd the first time I wore my glasses. Another crack. My dad yelled at me. Yet another crack. Someone whispered near me and I thought it was about me. Crack. Someone looked in my direction the wrong way. Crack. I was becoming ultrasensitive and everyone could see it, but no one confronted me about it. They were too afraid to cause another crack.

I used to hide behind kindness. I wouldn’t let anyone see that I was upset. I was a good girl. I never got in trouble, even with my parents. I thought if I kept being the “nice girl” I could fix my heart. After all, people are never cruel to a person who was nothing but nice. That wouldn’t be fair, right? Who ever said the world was fair?
Slowly, I began to fill those gaping cracks with ice. Sarcasm dripped out of my mouth without second thoughts. I would think of anything I could to avert my anger towards myself for my “uselessness”, and sometimes those things meant hurting others. I would do anything for attention—for praise. If that meant getting into friendships that would ultimately destroy me, then so be it. They made me feel important. They gave me power.

But they never got close. No one ever got close. That would mean I could get hurt again. I had experienced pain too many times to let it happen again. I would be your friend, laugh with you, and get into trouble with you, but you never knew what my problems were. I kept them hidden away because in my delusional world I thought I could handle it myself.

Everyone has a breaking point, you know. Sometimes it’s so fast you have to deal with it more quickly than you were prepared for, and sometimes you have to suffer through a long bend before you finally snap. Both are equally painful. Mine just happened to be the former.

February 28, 2014: For nearly two weeks a family friend of mine had been in the hospital. For one week, she had been in a coma and she was only 17. She had a heart defect along with DiGeorge Syndrome and she was the happiest person you would ever meet. And I was ashamed to know her. She didn’t talk normal. She wasn’t into normal things. Deep down I knew it was wrong to not talk to her for that reason. I knew it was despicable even, but I couldn’t get myself to talk to her outside of church.

I was at a baseball game at my brother’s college and my mother’s phone rang beside me. She looked at it and said, “It’s Robin.” That was the girl’s nurse. I knew exactly what was happening before my mother ever answered the phone. I never thought it would happen to her. She was too good of a person. That night they pulled the plug on her and I never got to say I was sorry for being such a horrible friend. I never got to tell her the truth. That I loved her and she was the kind of person I wanted to be.

That night I broke. I was going to be a better person if it was the last thing I did. I would be nicer. I would be less sarcastic. I would find better friends who would always be there. I would be there for them, too. I would never be the same as I was toward that friend.

I stopped hanging out with those bad influences. I found better friends that I could count on. I went to church more because I enjoyed it. I had friends there that I knew would never be embarrassed of me and I would do my best to be the same to them. I would, I swore I would.

It hasn’t been easy and I’m still dealing with my insecurities, but I’ve made some progress. All great things take time, after all. Occasionally, a rude comment escapes my lips, but I do my best to apologize. Apologizing—that’s another thing I need more practice on. One day though, I will be just as great as her. I will be just a great as Courtney.