My story
I’ve honestly lived my whole life feeling like a ghost in my own home. From the time I was a little kid, it was always about my brother. He was the golden child—my parents and even my grandparents worshipped the ground he walked on, while I was just the scapegoat. I grew up getting beaten to a pulp by my father for the smallest things, and then he’d lock me away in dark rooms. I’d just sit there in the pitch black, terrified and alone, wondering what was so wrong with me.
And because they were so focused on my brother or their own lives, they never protected me. We had a helper at the house—a male maid—who touched me in ways he never should have. I was violated in my own home, and there was nobody to turn to. I had to swallow that trauma and just keep going.
Then, when I was around 10 or 12, the house turned into a different kind of war zone. It came out that both my parents were having affairs. They were caught, and they were constantly on the brink of divorce. The atmosphere was so toxic I could barely breathe. I had always been really good at my studies, but my grades just fell off a cliff. How was I supposed to care about school when my family was a lie?
Football was the only thing that kept me sane. It was my soul. But even that was stolen from me. When I was 15, I was in a tournament and my knee just gave out. I completely tore my ACL and both my lateral and medial meniscus. I was in agony, but my parents didn't even bother to get me checked out. They actually accused me of faking the injury because my exams were near. They thought I was just looking for an excuse.
So, I did the most insane thing possible—I played for two years, from age 16 to 17, with a completely torn ACL and shredded meniscus. Every time I stepped on the pitch, I was destroying my body. The bones were grinding together until my cartilage was just... gone. Finally, after my grandmother and some relatives stepped in and pressured them, they got me the surgery. Those five days in the hospital were a living hell. Physically, I was wrecked, but mentally it was worse—I just laid there thinking my dream was dead and I’d never play again.
And while I was at my absolute lowest, the world just kept piling it on. My "closest" friend—someone I thought had my back—went and asked out the girl I loved with all my heart when I was 16. Then my cat died. That cat was the only thing in that house that ever gave me unconditional love, and then he was gone too.
I was the joke of the friend group. I was their scapegoat. Everyone made fun of me, calling me "glass legs" because I wasn't as good on the field anymore. They didn't realize I was out there on one leg, literally on my last legs, while everyone else was at 100%. Even my coach, the person who was supposed to guide me, was talking trash behind my back. My teammates, people I bled with on the field, they all joined in.
Now I’m 18. I’ve survived the beatings, the violation, the betrayal of the affairs, the physical destruction of my body, and the mockery of everyone I knew. I finally have a vision. I know exactly what I want to do and I know the exact path I need to take to get there. But man, I am just so drained. I’ve been fighting since I was a child, and now that the door is finally open, I feel like I don't have the strength to walk through it. I’m just so, so tired.