[Author note: so this was my first ever blog post in my online journal...I'll tell you one thing, it ain't all candies and rainbows]

Let me tell you a story...

When I was younger, just a little girl, I was your average kid: I played with Beanie Babies; I went to school and played with friends; I caused trouble. I made mistakes. Sometimes I'd forget to take out the garbage or empty the dishwasher. Other times I'd break things and bang on the piano in frustration when things just weren't working out.

My father, the disciplinarian of the household, would simply raise his voice (in Cantonese) and grumble, "You're no good." Worthless. And though he meant it in a hey, knock it off, type sentiment, those words stung me and will probably stay with me till the day I die.

Deserving contempt. Good-for-nothing. Useless. Those were the words I grew up with. Every single time I made a mistake, big or small, out they'd come. My dad doesn't say it anymore. We had a pretty emotional talk in the car one day about it. But even though he doesn't say it anymore, doesn't mean the hurt is gone.

I'm still going to think I'll never be good enough. I'm still going to believe that if I ask for help I'll be admitting to the world I'm weak. I'm still setting unreachable goals and standards and beating myself up when I can't reach them. I will always think that if I don't understand something right away, I'm an idiot.

And making mistakes, even something as simple and common as misspelling a word or forgetting a phone number, will always leave me suffocating under what I fear most: the feeling of worthlessness. The forever-present monster inside me goading me to believe that I am worthless.