When I was 12 years old, I got my ears pierced after years and years of begging my parents. 6 weeks later, when the day finally came that I could take out the crappy little silver ball-shaped earrings and change them, my dad gave me a little box. I opened it and smiled. In the box, so delicately placed, were earrings shaped like claddaghs. Claddagh is Gaelic, meaning love, loyalty, and friendship. I looked up at him and smiled. They meant so much.
When I was 13 years old, my parents got divorced. I became distant and quiet, and kept to myself, only letting out my feelings through songs that I wrote, but hid in my tattered notebook. I was alone, and no one could do anything about it, because I chose to be alone. I still wore those claddaghs in my ears. They still meant something.
When I was 15 years old, I saw him with her. She was slim and young and pretty and petite. She looked happy. He looked happier. I locked myself in my room for a weekend and didn’t come out, not even for food. I was still wearing those claddaghs. My dad knocked on the door. I ignored him. I took out the earrings, and dropped them out of the window of my tiny New York apartment bedroom. They landed in the middle of the busy street, and I didn’t care at all. They meant nothing anymore.