Sometimes I wonder if you'll ever understand what you've done to me.
You called it love, but it always came with conditions. Every mistake became a lecture. Every feeling became "being dramatic." Every accomplishment was never enough, and every failure became proof that I wasn't trying hard enough. Home was supposed to be the place where I could breathe, but instead it became the place where I learned to stay quiet. I measured every word before I spoke, afraid of starting another argument or hearing another insult disguised as "help."
The hardest part isn't even the yelling or the criticism. It's the way you've made me question myself. I apologize for things that aren't my fault. I second-guess every decision. I keep waiting for people to be disappointed in me because that's all I've ever known. You tell everyone you sacrificed everything for me, but no child should have to earn kindness. Respect shouldn't disappear the moment a door closes. Love shouldn't make someone feel small.
I'm tired of pretending everything is fine just to keep the peace. I'm tired of carrying wounds no one can see. Maybe one day you'll understand that the bruises people remember aren't always physical. Sometimes they're the words repeated over and over until they become the voice inside your own head.
I'm still here. I'm still trying. And despite everything, I'm learning that my worth isn't determined by your approval. I deserve patience. I deserve respect. I deserve a life where I don't have to be afraid of being myself. Maybe that's the first step toward healing.
