I’m 21, first-born daughter and also a graduate, but I feel like I’ve lived multiple lifetimes already—not by choice, but by survival. I was forced to grow up way too fast. At an age when I should’ve been playing and discovering the world with innocence, I was already watching my parents tear each other apart. I saw how my dad treated my mom—how he spoke to her, about her—and those things got burned into my mind. I was only eight, but I knew things I shouldn’t have had to know. Their marriage looked perfect to outsiders. People would come to our home and feel welcomed, even loved. But inside those walls, there was no peace. No harmony. Just tension, dysfunction, and hidden wounds. Despite all that, I still want to get married someday. I want love. I want one true, peaceful, lasting marriage. Because I was brought up with it, even though it was like a myth that doesn’t exist, but I do have much love to give. Every time I think about that dream, I hear this voice in my head whispering: “You’re asking for too much.” “You don’t have what it takes.” “You’ll just repeat what they did.”
“You can never see someone who would love you with the hurt you grew up with.” Sometimes, I believe it. Sometimes, it eats me alive. I pray, I believe in God, and I know that what they had doesn’t have to be what I have. But the trauma doesn’t let go that easily. And it hurts because I know I’m trying to rewrite the story—but the pain still echoes. Right now, I’m even thinking of leaving home for good—not because I hate my parents, but because the environment is toxic. I didn’t grow up with them most of my life, and now that I’m back, I feel like I’m suffocating in everything I tried to heal from. I don’t have much money. I don’t have all the answers. But I know I want better. I deserve better. This is me, trying to break the cycle. Trying to make it right. And damn, it’s heavy. I just don’t want to cry this night; that’s why I had to come here and rant. I’m done with that.
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