Raised by Ghosts, Haunted by the Living

Why did my parents even bring me to this planet? A lifelong question that I’ve had, and only they know the correct answer to.

Either I was mistakenly adopted during a blackout, or my parents decided early on that their family tree needed exactly one emotionally bankrupt punching bag. And spoiler alert, it was me.

Growing up, the only consistent thing in my life was inconsistency. One day it was silent treatment, the next day it was being yelled at for existing too loudly, and the next day it was being punched to the verge of an emergency room visit.

So I adapted, transformed, became who I thought they wanted. Strong, stoic, silent, basically, the ‘son’ they never had to raise properly. I shut down my softness like it was a hazard. I watched the girl in me shrink herself so small, even I couldn’t find her anymore.

Every time I tried to connect, I got concrete walls, physical abuse, emotional manipulation, the full toxic playlist. But I kept trying like a fool with WiFi issues, hitting “Reconnect” again and again.

I tried. I tried until I became this mess who doesn’t know what to do next in life. I people-pleased so hard I might as well have handed out customer feedback forms after every sentence.

All in the hope of earning a little affection, a bleak smile, a whisper of “we’re proud of you.” Instead, I got bruises; some on the skin, most on the soul.

Now I’m 34. I’ve spent three decades trying to become “lovable enough,” only to realize I was auditioning for a role that didn’t exist. I still feel guilty that maybe I failed them, that maybe I was too sensitive, that maybe asking for basic human decency was somehow too much.

Confidence.. yeah, I’ve heard of it. It’s that thing other people have when they’re not built entirely out of rejection, abandonment, and childhood trauma.

I am chronically love-starved, I have zero confidence, and I am still carrying the emotional hangover of a childhood that never really ended. Every decision I make has to be triple-checked with the imaginary approval of people who never approved of me in the first place.

Some days I crave peace so badly, death feels like a spa appointment. But of course, I’m still here, masking and pretending, cracking jokes in the middle of breakdowns, because hey, that’s the family legacy I actually inherited: suffer silently and keep faking to the world.

P.S. If you see the girl I was supposed to be, tell her I’m sorry. I didn’t abandon her, I just didn’t have permission to let her live.

Catch you later amigos, or not. Just trying to stay alive and sarcastic. Does this rant even make sense? Ah, I don’t care anymore…