You are loved, by all standard definitions of the word.
You are cared for, by the people around you. They tell you you're great, they tell you they're glad you exist, they tell you you're valuable and priceless and the world is a better place because you're here. They tell you that you do things in a way others cannot, they tell you how amazing you are.
You have had an ordinary childhood. Things didn't go too wrong; you had friends, though few, but you made good memories. You grew, you played, you laughed, you cried. An ordinary childhood, like every other kid your age. Some things did hurt you, some people did leave you, but all of that was so long ago and the memories are blurry now; surely, they don't hurt you anymore.
The people around you, they love you.
And yet - you hate yourself.
Everything about yourself is awful, like a monster but not even a normal monster; a crippled, twisted, ugly monster incapable of even functioning the way it should. Everything is a task, until you cry and claw your way through it to an extent where you can see nothing but faults in it - about how you've messed it up and how much you suck. You see those stares, and in some cases, no stares, and you wonder if you're really so bad. You spend nights curled up in bed, hugging your knees, wondering why you are the way you are, why you can't just square your shoulders, hold your head proud, and live. But the shame has been so strong since that very normal childhood, that not even your friends' compliments and reassurances are any source of comfort.
You know what you're good at, but you can never bask in the pride. You know what your strengths are, but you feel too weak to show them. You know you are valuable, just a bit, but you can't see an inch of it, and you want to withdraw and crawl into your shell until your soul turns invisible.
You are subpar, too incapable, not good enough, never good enough, the world will be a better place without you, your friends will be happier without you, and there they are, waving their hands at you and calling you over with big smiles and genuine love, but they can't love you, they don't love you, why would they? There's not one good reason they should love you - or so you can't help but believe.
You are not worthless, you know this, but there's a void in your heart that won't let you believe.
Where does this ugliness in your soul come from? Why won't it leave you alone?
Why the fuck won't it leave you alone?
Perhaps this is how Armin felt before he was brought back to life by the people who loved him.
