I'm an average teenager—or at least, that's what I look like from the outside. But my life has never felt average. I remember my mother looking at me with the same tenderness she had when she first held me in the hospital. For a time, I was surrounded by love.
Then something changed.
As a child, I suddenly began pulling away whenever my family showed affection—physical or verbal. I can't fully explain why. It made me uncomfortable in a way I didn't understand, so I pushed them away. And after that, everything felt different.
They started looking at me differently. Talking to me differently. Like I was resentful all the time. Like I was difficult. Like I was some kind of monster—like I didn't have feelings.
I can never drown out the voices around me.
Not even if I was deaf and blind.
"That child has a filthy mouth."
"You can get out of this house and find another mother."
I know I'm skipping pieces of the story, but point is: as I grew up, anger became the language spoken around me. My family was often harsh, sometimes cruel. By the time I was eight, I was already carrying burdens I didn't know how to carry on my own. And I carried that, for a really, really long time.
Unlike my siblings, I fought back.
I talked back. I educated myself. I called out what they were doing to me. Even when my voice trembled.
And almost every time, I was met with a slap.
Eventually, depression settled into me—but not because I was “disrespectful” or because I fought back. The truth is, I had been depressed since I was ten, pain shaped me—molded me with each careful stroke here and there like clay.
My father used to hit me, really frequently, especially when he was drunk. That abuse became part of my childhood. He doesn't do that anymore. He's changed—he supports what I do now, and he works hard. But damnit all if it didn't change me and was the root of my depression.
He knows I'm depressed.
Therapy has been brought up before, but every time it is, I break down crying. Not because I think therapy is bad. But because the thought of sitting in front of a stranger—being seen completely, honestly vulnerable—terrifies me.
If they asked me what happened, I know every wall I've spent years building would collapse at once. Every buried memory, every bit of grief, every ounce of exhaustion would come pouring out.
And what was years of torment, I finally pulled myself up.
At some point in life, I realized—no one was going to save me, I became my own home, my own friend, my own peace, and my own love. I thought—“maybe one day I'll prove them wrong.“ and so, I worked for it, I became skilled, elite, knowledgeable, and prided myself of being born as a human.
Top 3 of Batch 2025–2026. Best Actress. Best Musician. Class President. Student Council 2026–2027.
So on, so on.
But of course, even with all the wins and losses in my life. I feel lost. I've yet to prove them wrong, but it's also not about letting them finally see me. I have my own life too.
I became disgustingly but beautifully educated in life, death, atoms, everything that makes us human. I raised myself to know my own worth, to know what it is to be a human, to know how life is.
If I had the power to turn back time,
I wouldn't change a single thing.
It was torment, yes.
But little-me is strong enough, she can figure it out.
It shaped me to what I am today, and I have no regrets.
But on random days, I wake up and think—
If I'm still that kid.