The Myth of Self-Worth

Sometimes I still see myself there
with that bottle in my hand,
screaming to the world,
“I don’t give a damn!”
trying to convince them as I try to
convince myself.

Sometimes I still see myself there
holding that pipe,
holding that bag, that bong,
that bloody knife,
wondering why nobody cared
when I could’ve cared less about their lives.

It’s hard to understand,
hard to fathom, let alone explain,
how I got to that point,
that jumping-off place where
I wished for the end,
when I see where my life is today.

A seed becomes a tree
when it’s nourished right,
given enough water and light—
I thank God every day
that I somehow came to life.

Because people believed in me
when I hated myself,
they told me I’d come through
while I berated myself,
desecrated myself as if I weren’t alive,
treated myself like I didn’t deserve
a damn thing;
man I had a lot of nerve.

Because nobody ever told me I was worthless,
nobody ever told me I was nothing;
I told myself that for years…
and thank God, thank whatever or whoever it was,
that allowed me to open my ears
to hear what I was being told
despite the fact that I chose not to listen:

that you are precious,
you are loved,
you are a child of God and nobody,
no circumstance,
not the face of evil itself
could ever take that away from you.

Nobody can ever take that away from you.