Today, I realized that I have been molded into the person I am by the moments of hurt that have happened thus far in my life.

When I was 5, my parents separated and divorced. The hurt that I felt molded me into a small child that longed for tradition. Tradition that was embedded in truth. A truth that validated my beliefs of what it meant to love.

When I was 13, I watched both of my parents enter relationships that would transform my life. My mother's flickered with the hope that she would become a support system I always needed. But, this was short-lived by my step-father taking his life.

This hurt transformed how I felt pain. I hurt for those around me. I hurt for my mother. I hurt for his children. I hurt for his friends. But, I never hurt for myself. The pain of others started to drag me down, drown me with sadness, and dry the happiness from my eyes.

Having to feel others pains made me a martyr. I battled others anguish to spare them from feeling the hurt that life brought full force. Hurt transformed me into a rock. I was shaped by the blows that life kept throwing, but despite this I remained solid. I cracked. I chipped. I was worn at the edges. But, I never disappeared.

At age 19, I experienced a pain that was foreign to me. I was faced with healing the wounds of heartbreak. I have come to realize that the worst kind of hurt comes unexpectedly. It could be an accident. It could be failure. But, in my case, it came from someone that promised me that they would never be the cause of my hurt.

For the first time in my life, I had to experience my own hurt, my own pain, my own loss. I was lost. I had no direction. I could deal with others hurt, but my hurt? No way. I couldn't feel my own pain. That was too real. And, then I experienced what it felt like to have your heart refuse to cooperate with your mind.

The pain that this heart break brought swallowed my very existence. I turned cynical. I was morphed into a black hole that rejected any form of affection. I recoiled at the thought of letting someone climb over the walls that I built on a foundation of animosity.

The energy that once lived inside of me came to an abrupt halt. The motivation to achieve my life goals was transformed into small pep talks begging myself to crawl out of bed. I was slowly buried by a shovel of disappointment. I forfeited my chances of happiness over to a world consumed by darkness. Once a girl who could carry a sea of other people's hurt, I sank from the sickness within my heart.

But one day, I realized that the most damaging kind of hurt is the kind that arrives unseen. It remains unrecognizable, until it doesn't. This deplorable thief breaks through your lines of security. It slithers in with the intention to destroy. It steals your identity. It throws water on the passion that once burned so fiercely within your chest. It shatters the vase that once held all of your aspirations. It slowly asphyxiates your ability to breathe in the bliss that life has to offer. It murders your ability to dream. It smothers you underneath a pillow of defeat.

So, how did I escape the attempt of strangulation that pain wrapped around me?

I fought back. Hard. Losing myself in this battle was not an option. I refused to let this lethal perpetrator take what was mine. I confronted the darkness with a match stick, and when I ran out of match sticks-- I lit a fire within myself that refused to go out.

I gave a name to my hurt. I said hello to it every morning, and good night to it every night. Until one day, hurt wasn't there to greet me in the morning-- and hurt wasn't there for me to wish a good night. Hurt sank back into its tomb of sadness and left nothing but a cold promise to visit soon.