Hello ma,

It’s your daughter—the one you wish would change, the one you wish would become something better.

I promise you ma I’m trying. I really am. Every day, I try to change myself into someone you might finally be proud of. Maybe if I become better, quieter, easier to love, you’ll look at me differently.

Because you once told me that you would never care about me if I wasn’t your own blood.

It hurts, ma. It really does.

But I pretend it doesn’t. I laugh and say, “Kya yaar, mummy, papa ko bataungi, ab toh dekh lena,” while something inside me dies a little every time I see those eyes looking at me.

There’s always a certain spark in your eyes when you look at me. But sometimes that spark feels like a fire waiting to burn me.

And I hate how much I remember those eyes.

I remember seeing fear in them when I was running away from home. I saw the fear, the warmth, the desperation of losing your daughter and never seeing her again.

I remember sleeping at the police station because I hadn’t slept for two days. I remember finally giving up, and you sitting beside me, caressing my hair, patting my back, holding me close.

Why ma?

Why then?

Why when I wanted to leave?

Why did you wait so long to hug your own daughter?

And the saddest part is that I couldn’t feel happy.

All I could think about was how you were manipulating everyone into believing that we had a beautiful bond, that you loved me, that I was the one who was wrong.

It’s almost comical that the first time I hugged you after so long didn’t feel genuine.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to shout as loudly as I could and beg you to take your hands off me. Your touch felt like a thorn pressed into my skin.

It made me cry in the same way you cry when someone keeps touching you without your permission and you cannot make them stop.

I wanted to shrink myself until there was nothing left of me for you to hold.

My whole body felt disgusted at the thought of your motherhood.

I wanted to beg you

Please Ma. Please keep your hands away from me. I can’t bear this.

I panicked. I wanted to rip my own skin off just so I could escape the feeling of being touched by you.

And I hate that.

Because you’re my mother.

You made me.

So why does being held by you feel like something I need to survive?

I remember the fight when I was taking your side, and somehow I was still the one who was wrong. Everyone turned against me, and the only person I wanted to stand beside me stood away from me too.

I remember screaming at the top of my lungs while you kept slapping my face to make me stop.

I remember you holding my shoulders, trying to shake this monster out of me.

I remember waking up crying from a nightmare in the middle of the night, only for you to tell me to just let you sleep.

You didn’t even ask me why I was crying.

Why, Ma?

Am I not your daughter?

Don’t I have your eyes? Your face? Your blood? Your DNA?

Why do you turn your eyes away when I cry?

You don’t even look at me.

Sometimes it feels as though you’ve seen something so shameful that you cannot afford to look at that sin for even a second.

Ma, how do you not remember all the times I had to do everything alone?

How do you sleep while I’m crying in the same bed?

How?

Am I really such a burden to you?

Am I the thing that ruined your life?

I know you wanted a son. Someone who would defend you. Someone who would take your side when you fought with Papa.

But I do that na Ma?

I take your side.

I argue with him for hours on the phone. I listen to his silence. I tolerate his words. I stand between you and him even when it costs me everything.

So please Ma.

Look at me.

Look into my eyes and tell me I’m your daughter.

Hold me because you love me, not because you’re afraid of losing me.

Please ma.

Motherhood is supposed to be the strongest force in the world.

So why does it feel like your hatred for me is stronger than it?

You tell me I’m the reason you’re alive. You tell me you would have died if it weren’t for me.

But then Ma, why do you make me feel like I should have never been born?

Why do you make me feel like there is nothing desirable about me?

Sometimes I genuinely think I must look ugly because I wasn’t made with love.

Like maybe I was made out of naivety.

Pressure.

Anything but love.

And I search for your arms in the people you never want me to go near.

I tell people to shout at me. To humiliate me. To hurt me.

Because somewhere inside me, I still believe that if someone hurts me enough, maybe they’ll eventually love me enough to clean up the mess they made.

But it’s always the same Ma.

Just like I always had to pick up what I broke, I have to pick myself up too.

Because no one wants to.

You were right.

Maybe no one will ever love me Ma.

Because if the person who gave birth to me cannot love me, why wouldn’t the rest of the world laugh at me too?

I yearn to be held by people.

But I can’t make myself trust their arms.

I remember when Papa made us hug after we fought. I remember you pushing me away and asking if I was finally done with my drama.

And even then, I didn’t want to hug you.

I wonder why.

People love hugging their parents na, Ma?

So why didn’t I?

Why couldn’t I stand the way you felt?

Why couldn’t I stand the way I felt when you touched me?

You literally made me.

And somehow, I still couldn’t bear your touch.

I punish myself every single day because that’s what you taught me.

I always sit alone because you once told me it felt like, “When will I finally be rid of you?”

Sometimes I wonder if everyone feels the same way about me.

I swear I could keep you happy, Ma.

I promise.

I’ll earn enough. I’ll afford things for us. I’ll take care of you. I’ll treat you better than Papa ever has.

Please leave him.

He isn’t good for you.

And I say that as his favourite child.

I know he isn’t good for you because I’ve watched you keep throwing a rope to save him, only for him to push you back into the water once he’s rescued.

You keep giving.

He keeps taking.

So please leave him.

But please let me leave too.

I promise I’ll keep you happy from far away.

Because I don’t think I can ever be happy near you, ma.

I’m sorry I’m such a disgrace.

I know I am.

I genuinely believe it sometimes.

And I hate myself for it.

But please ma, set me free.

I have never really known your warmth, and maybe I’m too old to learn what it feels like now.

Please set me free before I grow my own wings ma.

Please.

I beg you.

We are too much alike Ma.

You laugh after you hurt me, and I choose people who do the same.

You ask for forgiveness in front of Papa, and I ask for forgiveness in front of him too.

You hate yourself.

And I hate you too.

But I hate myself even more for hating you.

I sometimes wish you loved me the way you love your God.

You tell me that I will rot in hell because I don’t believe in Him.

Maybe you’re right.

Maybe even the one you worship hates me.

Maybe I am being punished through you for not believing in Him.

And maybe that’s why I keep wondering what I did wrong to deserve a mother who makes me feel like this.

I grieve you ma even as I sit right beside you.

I miss a childhood that never happened.

I miss a version of you that I keep hoping will appear one day.

And seeing you cry still makes me cry.

That’s the part I don’t understand.

How can it be so easy for you to ignore your own daughter while I still cannot stop caring when you’re hurting?

You say I am the reason you are alive.

And yet, somehow, you have made me feel like I am the reason you wish you weren’t.

I cannot be the daughter who takes care of her mother at the end of the story and lives happily ever after.

I am too selfish for that.

Too tired.

Too desperate to have a life of my own.

Maybe I am the daughter who lives alone with her cat.

Maybe I am the daughter who moves to New York and starts over.

Maybe I am the daughter who goes no-contact just so she can finally learn what happiness feels like.

And I hope you forgive me, Ma.

Although it would be a lie to say I want your forgiveness.

When have I ever really been forgiven anyway?

I’ve lived with the guilt for so long.

I can live with it a little longer.

And this is my last request as your daughter:

Please don’t love me now.

Please continue to hate me.

Curse me if you have to.

Tell me I’ll go to hell.

Because I am so close to leaving everyone behind, and I don’t want your love to become the thing that makes me stay.

I don’t want your love now, Ma.

Your stupid daughter,

Simmi.

I hate how I have been demanding love from everyone except myself.

Since college started, I’ve found myself hoarding clothes, makeup, cute accessories—anything that might prove to everyone that I’ve had a glow-up. That if I wear pretty clothes, learn how to do the makeup everyone is doing, act cute, smile more, somehow, magically, I’ll become lovable.

That maybe some cute guy in my college whom I don’t even know will smile at me. Maybe he’ll look at me for two seconds longer than usual, and I’ll be able to tell myself: See? I’m pretty. People like me. I’m lovable.

I’m tired of pretending I’m fine without having someone to love me.

And so I find myself wanting attention from people I don’t even know, and when they don’t give it to me, I suddenly feel like there is no one uglier, more unwanted, more unlovable than me.

And I’m exhausted from pretending I don’t want to be loved right now.

Because I desperately do.

I say I hate being touched. I say it makes me cry. But all I really want is for someone to ask me, “Why, my love? Why does it make you cry? What happened?”

Pretty please, can I let my wounds have your name?

I just need someone who doesn’t make me feel like the world is ending every time I mess something up.

I can make myself chewable.

I can be your pretty slut, your manic pixie dream girl, your first crush, your plaything.

Just please, please love me.

I cannot handle being with myself right now.

Pretty please, love me.

Please, please, I can prove to you that I want your love. I love your love. I love your attention.

Please, pretty please.

I can be okay with you treating me like shit, just please be with me. Please make me feel like I have control. I am so desperately in need to take some control, please make me feel like I have it.

Please call me your good girl, that you’re so proud of me, but please mean it. I am so tired of hollow words. Please, pretty please.

I beg you, please mean it.

Tell me I am your exception. Tell me you will be my safe space. Tell me I can drink near you.

Please, tell me to lower my guards around you, but please wait until I do.

I can make it fast, but please don’t rush me.

Just kiss me in the hallway and please tell me you can’t keep your hands off of me.

But please let me pretend for a while, pretty please.

I can unlearn it later, but for now, please call me your good girl.

I know exactly what I’m doing. But I don’t want to know. I don’t want to analyse it.

I don’t want to understand.

I just want to be loved.

I can tell you that I miss you without meaning to. I want to know when you eat and when you sleep. I want you to tell me you’ll miss me after we’ve talked for so many hours.

Pretty please, tell me how i make you feel?

I can ask you to write something for me and, because I know I’m not that important, I can pretend that it doesn’t bother me when you don’t.

Why would it?

I was never important enough for it to bother you anyway.

I know love is supposed to come naturally. I know I shouldn’t have to beg for it. But I am so tired of never being chosen.

You tell me I’m funny, and all I can see is someone whose teeth she doesn’t like.

People see someone with a nice smile, and I hate the way my cheeks look when I smile.

You love my eyelashes. You love my eyes.

I see the dark circles.

Please. Just love me.

And yes, I know the logical explanation.

I know.

I am just so tired.

I’m tired of understanding everything and still feeling this way.

I’m tired of being able to explain my own pain perfectly and still not being able to make it stop.

I am so exhausted.

Just please love me.

Pretty please.

People say there’s so many essays about the eldest daughter, so here’s me adding another to the list

And I say let her at least have the essays for her? Why take her life and her words too?

because even though all the eldest daughters reek of the same old wound, of the same cold heart ready to meet a warm sun, they never do.

And even if they do, they have learnt to hug themselves before anyone else does, they tell themselves to name the 5 things they can see, to touch the nearest object to be grounded, to dress in pretty shiny clothes to hide the rot underneath and must I say, be better than god itself.

The eldest daughter is born as a fully functional adult the moment she’s out of the womb. She is 3 and can read ABCs and room, she’s fluent in her mother tongue and her mother’s curse

And I’m sure her first words wasn’t mom or dad, that’s for losers, non-high-achieving kids.

She learned to speak in full sentences.

And I’m pretty sure it was, “I must laugh or I will cry.”

She cries while others dance to the melody of her grief,

And then she’s 13, an adult who’s already getting up at 5 am, studying harder than teenagers her age, making breakfast for herself and siblings because her mom needs rest.

Of course, nobody asked her to take care of her siblings

Maybe they did taunt her, or tell her how they thought they could rely on her, or or maybe that it’s normal for kids her age to do manage all these chores and studies and a family altogether but yea sure, nobody really said a 13 year old to be a parent for her parents

People say every person has a different definition of success.

Some people like to think money defines how successful you are, while others think it’s how much love you’ve surrounded yourself with.

I believe the eldest daughter doesn’t even get to decide that for herself, and naturally like other things the standards for her success is extremely high.

It’s to be a good daughter for her parents, the perfect retirement plan, a good teacher for her siblings, a mother, a caretaker, a brilliant overachiever all-rounder student, should fight patriarchy outside and should serve it inside her own home, should know everything about everyone at all times without any help.

She bakes her own cake, builds her own life, blows out her own candles and watches her own wishes turn to smoke. And of course, she has to look good while doing it.

Nobody told her how to regulate her own emotions so she learns to cut her own skin like a paper, bleeds out her ugliness infront of everyone for “attention” and because she gets told that she is too much

She learns to hide those scars neatly on her thighs, on the fat part she desperately wants to lose so she looks skinny and pretty and loveable again.

She slowly learns which trauma looks pretty enough, quirky enough that makes her feel loved and relatable, she maybe starts ruining herself just so the audience she is supposed to performs for gives her a pat in a back and tells her she can finally rest

And please don’t tell her to stop crying and be strong when she comes in front of you to be weak.

She’s so sufficient in everything, fluent in so many languages except her own suffering

I sometimes wonder,

Was she made unlovable or was it just a part of her inheritance?

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If you’ve been following me for a while, you might know me as the eldest daughter of an ultra-strict family who once ran away from home (failed attempt though), with more and more self-destructive tendencies that she somehow manages to practice every second of her life.

So now that I’m done with my introduction—which obviously could’ve been written better—I will proceed to write more things about why I hate myself.

But I also know that acceptance is the first step to change, so here I am trying to accept my “flaws.” Because these are only flaws since they belong to me. Actually you know what, I could love myself, and I’d be so proud of what I’m doing if it were anyone else doing it.

But it’s unbearable because it has my name on it, my weird habits, the way I speak—or don’t speak—the way I spend my time, or “waste” it away

Even though I do believe you can’t really waste time, that every living second of your life is worth something—that’s what I would say if I actually listened to my therapist.

But because I don’t, I think productivity is what defines me. That if all my articles don’t perform well, I automatically become someone who doesn’t work hard enough to make them relatable. And if I can’t do that properly, it must mean I’m just a person who doesn’t do anything properly.

Even though, if I actually acknowledged it, I might admit I’ve done quite a few things well.

But you know what acknowledging anything means to me?

It means I’m satisfied.

It means this is as far as I can go.

And somehow, no matter how good or bad I do, it always feels average. Or worse.

Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes I do think I’m pretty. Sometimes I think I’m hardworking.

But it only lasts until I see someone prettier than me, working harder than me, or handling their trauma better than me.

The moment that happens, I get jealous.

Which isn’t a good thing to do, but it is a very human thing.

And yes, I know someone being prettier or smarter than me doesn’t leave less space for me. I know it all too well. I preach it to other people all the time.

But how do you shut up that voice that reminds you, 24/7, just how inadequate or incompetent you are?

This voice tells me I’m not dealing with my trauma efficiently.

But when I do deal with it efficiently, it tells me my scars aren’t deep enough to be taken seriously.

That maybe I’m the problem.

That maybe I’m making something huge out of something that shouldn’t even matter.

And so I look for another person to validate my pain for me. Someone who will tell me how strong I am, how gorgeous I am. Someone who’ll still be waiting for me at the end of the day, no matter how much I fuck up.

But even when I find that person, I do one of two things.

Either I start taking them for granted because now I know them—everything about them—and I distance myself before they discover what a stupid creature I am pretending to be kind and positive.

Or…

I simply don’t believe them.

Nothing they say matters because it never feels believable enough.

But yes, I know that as long as I’m outsourcing my validation, it’ll always feel hollow, no matter how genuine the other person is. No matter how many times they tell me they love me.

Not because they’re the problem.

But because if you don’t believe you’re capable of being loved, it never really matters.

And even if you do somehow believe them, depending on someone else for validation is like handing them the key to either rob your house or decorate it.

Which is a pretty risky thing to do.

Because if you can’t even trust yourself, how will you ever trust someone else not to disappoint you?

I always fear that the more people know me, the less they’ll love me. That one day they’ll finally catch me for something I’ve been trying so hard to hide.

And so, because I don’t want people to catch me, I overshare and pretend to be vulnerable in front of them.

And if you ask me, being vulnerable and oversharing aren’t quite the same. The line seems to blur, but they’re different.

Being vulnerable means sharing things you’re genuinely uncomfortable with people knowing.

Oversharing is pretending to be vulnerable so you don’t run out of things to talk about. Or maybe because you want the other person to know you better, and you love the intensity of intimacy so much that you convince yourself you just hate small talk.

And maybe I don’t fear people knowing me.

Maybe I can’t accept the fact that the more they know me, the more they’ll notice I have flaws.

Which somehow translates, in my head, into me being a bad human.

Technically, that’s something I can’t control. I can’t always be positive. I can’t always be right. I’m human.

But the thought that someone might not like me feels like proof that I’m simply not lovable.

That I’ll always remain the crush, but never the girlfriend.

Always the shelter, never the home.

That somewhere along the way, I’ll realize I’ve always been the second choice. The backup plan. The person they date because they want someone to satisfy their fantasies with.

I fear I’ll be used like a use-and-throw object.

Like a doormat for the people in my life.

You can call me avoidant all you want.

It’s fine.

But after having people reinforce your worst beliefs over and over again, connecting with people becomes hard.

Because it’s always the same problem.

The same fears.

The same habits.

And I know how annoying it must be for someone else to hear me complain about habits I already know the solution to but somehow can’t stop repeating.

It somehow feels like I’ll be abandoned again.

So I leave first.

I turn the other way where people can’t talk to me.

And then I complain about not having friends, even though I keep reinforcing the very habits that make sure I don’t.

And did I tell you?

I’m writing this surrounded by a bunch of friends talking and giggling with each other.

I’ve got earphones in my ears.

They’re not even playing anything.

And somehow, this is the loneliest I’ve felt all day.

I know I shouldn’t be this negative all the time.

But what am I supposed to do with these voices?

I’m too optimistic to end myself.

And too self-destructive to keep on living.

So I treat every day like something I have to survive.

Something I have to earn just to remain valid enough to exist.

I say I want the world but refuse to stay in it.

I say love should never be demanded, yet I refuse to believe I deserve it too.

I say, “I love you,” but sometimes I wonder if what I really mean is, “Please love me.”

I believe you can’t judge a book by its cover, yet somehow the way I dress decides whether I deserve to be loved.

I think I crave love while having so little of it to give myself.

I reek of hatred.

And I fear the people I love will start smelling it too.

So I wear layer after layer to hide the odor.

But all it does is make it more noticeable.

And for some reason, i feel like I’m constantly behind.

But then I’d like to ask two questions.

How can someone be behind in their own life?

And behind what?

Just because you know something, just because you’re aware of the positive answers, doesn’t mean you’re not lost.

You are.

You’re just lost with a map this time.

You know where to search.

You just forget to.

Knowing something doesn’t make it better.

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Lately, I have been feeling like a stranger to myself.

Not in the grand “look, I had a glow up” kind of way. It’s a bit more scattered than that.

It’s usually in the ways I find myself telling the same story to the twentieth person and pausing midway, trying to ask myself if my story really matters anyway.

Or it’s like when I look at myself in the mirror and don’t think I recognise the person staring back.

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The first things I notice are my flaws: dark under-eyes, uneven skin, wavy hair I still don’t know how to take care of, and small, tired eyes that look like they’re trying to understand themselves.

But if I look a little longer, I notice things I somehow never saw before. My teenage features are gone. I have sharp collarbones I didn’t know I had, and hair that has thinned so much because of stress.

Then I slowly wonder how long I’ve looked like this.

It’s hard to point at a particular month where it all started to change.

Was it two years ago, before I burned out? Or has this person been here all along, waiting for me to finally pay attention?

For years, it feels like I lived on autopilot, seeing only enough to get through the day.

You know the one where you brush your teeth only because you’re supposed to, shower because your body reeks of your own misery, and eat only because you need to take your meds to have enough energy for another day.

But lately, I’ve been treating myself with more kindness. I try to make others feel a little more included and laugh with people more freely. You know, as they say, I’m putting myself out there.

But now that I do, I find myself avoiding everyone’s eyes and wanting to hide inside my own bubble.

This wanting to hide isn’t always present. It usually happens when someone sends me a reel saying, “Simran, this is so you,” and I stare at that text a little longer than I should.

My first instinct is happiness—knowing that someone remembered me among the thousand reels they watched.

But then, quietly, that happiness fades, and I start panicking, knowing people actually can see me.

This might sound strange to some, but for most of my life I’ve been the classic side character helping the main character win. I’m someone whose birthday is celebrated a day late because my friends were busy, or maybe they all brought me a cup because they didn’t know what else to get.

People tell me I should be grateful for being celebrated and for receiving all the gifts, and I am. But I don’t think I can ever explain this kind of loneliness to someone who hasn’t experienced it.

It’s as if people around you keep talking and laughing in a group, and then, after thirty or forty minutes, someone notices you’re still there and lets you speak for thirty seconds, only to interrupt you again.

Slowly, you get used to not talking at all.

You just nod back at people, holding a smile.

So it’s strange because I’ve spent most of my life wanting to be known, understood, deeply seen. Yet the moment I imagine people looking at me, I panic. They’ll form opinions I’ll never get to hear, make assumptions I’ll never get to correct, and carry versions of me that don’t belong to me at all.

Maybe that’s what scares me about being perceived.

Once someone has seen you, a part of you exists in their mind forever, and you have no control over what it becomes.

It almost feels like I keep giving everyone the keys to my house, hoping they never use them—or worse, rob me.

But because I want everyone to like me, I keep handing those keys out anyway, even when I don’t want to.

Usually, one of two things happens. Either I quickly snatch the keys back the moment they try to enter my home, or they tell me my home is a little too cluttered for them to stay.

I think I’ve been feeling this way for as long as I’ve known myself. I’ve always tried to shrink myself. I’d buy clothes that helped me hide, and I’d speak too fast because I was afraid someone else would cut me off, so I stopped giving them the chance.

But life doesn’t really work that way.

You can’t rehearse every conversation before it happens.

You can’t predict who will stay.

You can’t control the version of yourself that other people carry home with them.

Maybe that’s why I’m still learning how to be seen without immediately reaching for the keys again.

I have a weird confession to make, I love to beg.

No wait, hear me out, I promise I have a point here.

When I say I love to beg, it’s mostly for people’s love, attention, validation… you get it.

I didn’t really realise this until I met my ex.

Our relationship wasn’t particularly romantic or good, I would say bad is the nicest I could describe it.

We were basically 2 self-diagnosed avoidants dating each other.

He’d give me attention and I’d get an ick. He’d withhold it and I’d ache.

I noticed this urge to beg in the moments where I would feel almost happy

because I asked him to pay attention to me.

Like I have always been waiting to say this.

Or when he would want pictures of me crying.

It was maybe the humiliation that I liked, or maybe getting treated the way I have always been familiar with.

Because as they say, familiar pain is still better than unfamiliar happiness.

I told this to my self-proclaimed situationship/friend, how I love to beg in front of people. I fucking feel happy to do that, it’s like this spark lights up in me, almost like feeling butterflies in my stomach.

I told him I love every man who tells me I can’t have him, because you better believe me when I say, I will beg you to hell if it meant proving that I can have you even when I don’t really want you.

He warned me about it though, saying how it’s okay to demand that in bed but it’s unhealthy to make it my personality, and I agree.

But this essay is not fixing it.

It’s about how I feel like I wanna be humiliated, degraded, borderline destroyed if the same person consoles me later.

I feel like it’s hard to describe this feeling, of being comforted by the one and only person who hurts you. Maybe it’s about them, it rarely is.

Or maybe it’s about how your parents would hurt you only to be the same people to praise you an hour later.

How even though you didn’t want to forgive them, you just had to.

And maybe the fact that they at least apologised to you seemed enough to you, so now you chase the same feeling you’ve known your entire life.

And I don’t think parents understand the weight of this behaviour. Maybe they do, but not the exact weight.

Because they’re training their children to beg more, to shrink and please to the point they are no longer capable of thinking about themselves.

I often fantasise about begging in front of this one person, but it’s never the same face.

It changes in the order of who seems the most emotionally unavailable at that moment.

In my mind, I would be on my knees for this person, crying, wrapped around his legs, as he is actively trying to grab my hair to throw me away.

But here’s the good part, after he is done with everything, he gently comes with my favourite snacks and sits beside me, feeding me, saying how he’s sorry, calling me his pretty slut.

Now, in the end of this essay you will see me telling how I realised all of this was just toxic habits I learned because of how my parents raised me, and I will finally give you a payoff while perfectly wrapping this up in a bow.

But I don’t, this is not that essay.

I love the chase, I love the high, I don’t think I’ve ever truly liked someone if it wasn’t for the rush I felt.

It’s almost like all I can imagine is having a man who can just throw me around and choosing not to every single time.

I sometimes wonder where this all came from, maybe when I was 5-6 in my school uniform and he was… well, older, trying to make me please him, because if I did, I would get the dairy milk.

I used to think it was my fault for looking at what he was showing me, I still remember it clearly, but not what happened next

but I do remember visiting his place because my family took me there, and he would try to show me what I can do to him from a distance every single time.

And ever since then maybe I chase that high, I remember being 7 and touching myself, pleasing myself on the bed, the chair, the pillow, everywhere, because it felt so similar to that day.

I knew I was supposed to feel disgusted, I knew it was not good, but somehow I ended up looking for him in every person I dated to maybe just control things this time.

That maybe this time, if I replicate the exact scenario I will get to be more in charge, more power over my past.

Which I did.

I remember choosing men all of the same type, needing to be controlled, they liked being told what to do.

And even though for a while I did feel in control, those relationships ruined me even more.

I had another situationship tell me how he’s concerned for me, that he feels sorry for me, when I tell him to ruin me because I know he’s capable of doing that, the men I choose, they all are, but he said he couldn’t do that.

He doesn’t want to.

And I don’t think you understand how it feels being told by someone that he doesn’t wanna ruin you. That you’re someone’s exception. The one they come home to.

Sometimes I wish to be completely drunk around him, fully under his spell, I know he will not do anything,

but I need to know how it feels to be loved unconditionally,

at least for a little while.

I want to know how it feels to have someone who can rescue me from myself.

I want him to tell me what a brat I am, and he could gladly handle me anyways.

But I don’t need him to perform this love for me.

The thing about love is that anyone can buy you flowers, they can take you out on a date and plan an amazing trip for your birthday.

They can give you the earrings you desperately wanted, or even a speech full of gratitude in a room filled with people you love.

All of it can be imitated.

Some people can love only some parts of you that match their version without asking if you even enjoy being there.

Sometimes I wonder when will it be my turn to be with someone who just gets me more than I do myself.

Who knows I don’t need his help, that I will dread it and do it again if he does it for me.

But still keeps on giving me gentle forehead kisses and backhugs midway, however annoying.

To let me know I’m not abandoned the moment I become hard to love. That it’s okay if I have not showered, and my hair is a huge mess, and still leans in for a hug me.

because when you’ve spent your entire life being hard on yourself, dreading your existence where even resting feels like it should be earned, someone who learns you so deeply starts to become your 2nd safe space.

2nd, because no one’s allowed to become my first.

Because I still need to survive when my safe space is not there, because one day maybe he will die before me, and I still need to survive that day.

I will still need to get up, because somehow everyone’s world hasn’t ended.

The mailman will come as usual, the laundry still needs to be done, and I still need to change the bed sheets.

Maybe this is what happens when you’re never taught your language, it becomes hard to understand it, let alone translate it.

So you keep on finding someone who will understand you without translating yourself.

So maybe that’s why I will never let this kind of love close to me, because one day when someone knows me deeply enough, just right, exactly how I’ve spent my life hoping they would, I don’t want to spend a day where I can’t pick myself up.

Because I have. I was always my own parent, my own enemy, my friend, and my worst wisher.

And I can live with that just fine. I can always go to therapy. I can always roam around the city at night with my friends crying. I can beg a stranger. But I cannot learn to live without a love I always prayed for.

I was trying to think of a goal for the rest of the year. You know, since the whole new year, new me thing clearly didn’t work out, July feels like the perfect time to lock in, work on those goals, and get that snatched waist.

But this time my therapist asked me to be as delusional as I possibly could while making them.

She said,

“If no one’s judging you, if no one’s there to tell you what you can or cannot do, what you’re allowed or not allowed to dream of… what would you want?”

Honestly, delusional might be my favourite word.

I like to think of myself as this strange girl who’s changed personalities more times than she’s changed phone wallpapers, convinced herself she’s destined for greatness on a random Tuesday afternoon, and somehow still believes everything will work out in the end.

So i did exactly what she asked.

While making that list, which, by the way, was doing nothing except giving me tiny bursts of dopamine

I tried thinking of a number I’d like to earn before this year ends.

I kept crossing it out.

Sometimes making it bigger because why not dream?

Sometimes making it smaller because I should also be “realistic.”

I kept trying to find that magical number that was ambitious enough to excite me but realistic enough to not disappoint me.

Then I realized something.

No matter what number I write down, no matter what happens, whether I fail or succeed…

I will probably still disappoint myself.

Because I’ve somehow convinced myself that my worth has always been hiding in the outcome.

I hate the process regardless of the result

And even after getting the result, I’ll still hate myself for not doing it exceptionally well.

And even if I do it exceptionally well, it feels obvious, like anyone else could’ve done it.

Because anything associated with me, anything that belongs to me, somehow loses it’s value the moment it becomes mine

I get this constant feeling that in order to deserve existing, I have to be good enough.

I should be ambitious, but not too ambitious, because then I’m a workaholic who doesn’t know how to enjoy life.

And if I don’t know how to enjoy life, maybe I won’t know how to enjoy myself.

And if I don’t even like myself, how could I ever expect another human being to tolerate me?

Let alone like me.

Pick me.

Choose me.

Love me.

And maybe that’s why I want to be pretty enough to be chosen.

Because God forbid a man doesn’t choose me. My self worth starts disappearing, even if I didn’t want him in the first place.

I’ve realized I don’t always want them.

I just want to be wanted.

I know, statistically, no one gets chosen every single time. Not even i can choose every single person.

Rejection is inevitable. Preferences exist. People leave. People choose differently.

My brain understands that.

I just can’t seem to convince my heart.

Because somewhere along the way, I started treating being chosen as proof that I was enough.

I have to be pretty.

But I shouldn’t know I’m pretty.

My beauty should look effortless.

I shouldn’t wear too much makeup, but I should still somehow look flawless.

I shouldn’t hate myself.

But I can’t openly love myself either, because that’s somehow embarrassing now.

Self-love isn’t marketable.

Insecurity is.

How else would I fit into conversations that begin with,

“Oh my God, me too. I literally hate myself.”

I can’t tell them about the kind of self-hatred that quietly follows me everywhere despite doing everything “right.”

But I also can’t tell them I’m proud of myself for surviving things that seemed impossible.

Because that’s supposed to come from someone else’s mouth and never mine.

I’m supposed to act surprised.

God forbid I ever say my fantasies out loud.

Or my desires.

Or the sadness I carry every single day.

I’m supposed to cope through humour because that’s when my mental illness becomes acceptable.

When it’s funny.

When it doesn’t take up space.

Not when it makes getting out of bed feel impossible.

Not when I forget to eat.

Not when my haemoglobin drops to six and I spend months calling myself lazy instead of sick.

You know when it finally makes sense to people? When it makes me easier to consume.

More palatable.

Less inconvenient.

So my question is…

When is it ever going to be enough?

When will i stop treating my existence like something that constantly has to be earned?

When will i accept that not everything i do has to be meaningful?

When will my life stop being measured by what i produce?

I’m tired.

I’m tired of being in my own mind.

Of surviving myself every single day.

And it’s not like I don’t know how to be kind.

I compliment people without thinking twice.

I tell them when they’re doing well.

I remind them that one bad day doesn’t erase all the good ones.

When they come to me with their problems, I somehow always have the answers.

I can find compassion for everyone else.

It just never seems to apply to me.

Even when we’re carrying the exact same burden.

So when do I get to rest?

When do I stop adding pain just to prove to myself that I’m capable?

And lastly, how do i make myself believe the things i say?

When they’re coming from the person who’s somehow been my biggest enemy…

And yet, my biggest well-wisher too.

Because if I’m stuck in this body, this mind, and this family for the rest of my life…

Avoiding the answer won’t change anything.

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What do you do when the universe finally gives you the one thing you’ve always begged for, and it’s still not enough?

And worse, how do you look out the window after the storm has passed, knowing it took everything with it?

Do you thank God for letting you glimpse the life you always wanted, or do you spit at the mockery of it?

Before I tell my story, there’s something I want you to know.

Everything you’re about to read is true. I’ve deliberately left out certain details to protect the people I still care about, and some because I know they could be used against me. So if parts of this story feel incomplete, it’s because I chose to erase them. Not because they didn’t happen. With that out of the way, here’s what happened.

Now, I don’t know where to begin.

Should I tell you about how, as a child, I buried myself in books because they were easier to understand than the house I lived in?

Or should I tell you about JEE, when there came a point where I couldn’t even open my books anymore? I’d sit in front of them for hours, staring at pages I’d already studied, trying to understand things I already knew. My chest would grow so heavy that I’d have to keep taking deep breaths, over and over again, while my mind felt wrapped in fog. I still don’t know if they were panic attacks, but I remember the weight. I remember feeling like invisible hands were pressing against my chest, making every breath feel borrowed.

Or should I tell you about my gap year?

How I fought for it, begged for it, argued for it until my parents finally couldn’t control that decision anymore? And when they realised they couldn’t stop me, I became the problem. Suddenly I was disrespectful.

Rebellious.

Ungrateful.

The girl with the sharp tongue who refused to obey her elders.

Or maybe I should tell you about my boyfriend(my ex now, thankfully) who cheated on me barely a month before I had to run away from home.

For weeks, I cried in front of him over calls. I begged him to take me back. I even gave him alternative options so he can continue while still keeping me around.

And yes, I know how pathetic that sounds.

But I wasn’t begging because I thought nobody would love me.

I was begging because I couldn’t survive losing everything at once. I couldn’t imagine running away from home while also losing the one person I thought I could fall apart in front of.

I needed someone to cry on.

Someone who would tell me I’d survive this.

In that desperation, I made a fool of myself. I even asked if we could keep talking while he dated someone else. I suggested double dates if it meant I could still have a tiny piece of the person I thought I loved.

Looking back, it feels humiliating.

Sometimes, it’s easier to convince myself I was the problem, even though his actions say otherwise.

I could sit here and list every terrible thing that’s happened to me. Every way life has broken me. Every moment that left me emotionally numb.

But I don’t want this to become a story about victimhood.

Worse has happened to people.

People have rebuilt themselves from unimaginable pain.

And I refuse to let my suffering become my entire identity.

So instead, I’ll tell you about one of the happiest nights of my life.

The night I booked my flight.

I still remember sitting there with my ex on call, barely able to contain myself. I was giggling, jumping around my room, trying to shush myself so my parents can’t hear me.

I couldn’t stop imagining everything that was about to change.

I kept doomscrolling, laughing at random videos, getting out of bed just to dance around my room before throwing myself back onto the mattress, only to get up again a few minutes later.

I was finally doing it.

As the day came closer, I kept imagining what it would feel like.

How I’d leave the house.

What I’d pack.

What I’d wear.

How I’d reach the city, meet my boyfriend, attend his college fest, and finally begin living the life I’d spent years dreaming about.

I even wrote notes to my future self, messages I’d read whenever I started doubting my decision.

Because I knew that day would come.

D-Day

The day finally arrived.

I put on a face mask, checked my bag one last time, and made sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.

That’s when something strange hit me.

Nineteen years of my life fit inside a single college backpack.

I just stood there staring at it.

Was that really all I was taking with me?

Was that really all my life here amounted to?

I even practiced running with it.

It felt unbelievably light.

Funny enough, that was the only moment I wished it were heavier.

I kept waiting for guilt to arrive.

For homesickness.

For the part where I’d look around my room and wonder if I was making the biggest mistake of my life.

But how do you become homesick for a home that has sickened you to your core?

The Train Ride to the Airport

You know what’s funny?

I’d never taken the metro before this.

I’d never even been on a plane.

I spent days watching airport vlogs, downloading random apps, Googling how boarding worked, convincing myself I wasn’t going to mess it up.

Growing up, I’d always imagined leaving home for college in a completely different way.

My parents would cry while helping me pack.

My mom would make all my favourite food.

My dad would insist on carrying my luggage.

They’d tell me to call every day.

Instead, I became my own parent.

Like I always had.

For the first time in my life, the local train arrived exactly on time.

It left exactly on time.

I smiled to myself.

Maybe even God wanted me to leave.

Maybe this really was the beginning of my life.

I’d always imagined celebrating the day I left home with chocolate cake and fireworks.

It was a silly little dream I’d had for years.

And somehow, the universe gave me both.

I bought a chocolate pastry to eat while waiting at the airport.

As I walked outside the shop, fireworks exploded across the sky.

There was some celebration happening nearby.

I don’t even remember what it was.

How could I?

Have you ever seen a little girl finally get the toy she’d been crying for?

The way her eyes light up.

The way she tries not to jump around because she’s too overwhelmed to contain her happiness.

That was me.

I knew, with every part of me, that I was doing the right thing.

Maybe it sounds stupid to be so happy over chocolate cake and fireworks.

But when you’ve spent years praying for one thing—begging the universe to let you leave, you start seeing miracles in places everyone else would ignore.

The Airport

People have written so much about airports.

How time doesn’t exist there.

How your city suddenly becomes beautiful the moment you’re about to leave it.

How that’s when it finally hits you—that you’re leaving.

I waited for all of that.

For me to feel something.

None of it happened.

I didn’t feel guilty.

I didn’t miss home.

I didn’t open the notes I’d written to convince myself I was making the right decision.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t need convincing.

I spent the whole night wandering around the airport, taking mirror pictures, trying not to think about the fact that I was on the second day of my period, and forcing myself to stay awake for my morning flight.

I still had six hours before boarding.

Six whole hours.

I walked around aimlessly, trying to memorize everything.

Every corner.

Every announcement.

Every tiny detail.

I knew I’d want to write about this one day.

About an hour before my flight, I got a notification.

Delayed.

Another two hours.

Then another.

All this while my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Call after call.

Message after message.

Everyone wanted me to come back.

They told me my parents had been admitted to the hospital.

But I’d already prepared myself for this manipulation.

I’d spent weeks thinking of every possible thing they could say to make me return.

Somehow, hearing exactly what I’d expected only strengthened my resolve.

I told myself they were lying.

That this was another attempt to stop me.

I refused to believe anything else.

Then everything changed.

Just before boarding, a police officer approached me.

He spoke calmly.

He said nobody was forcing me to go home.

That I was an adult.

That they only wanted to talk because they cared about my future.

Then he handed me his phone.

My father was on the other end.

The moment I heard him say my name, sobbing, something inside me cracked.

He kept asking me one question.

“What did I do that made you think you had to leave like this?”

I’d rehearsed that conversation a hundred times.

I’d made lists.

I knew exactly what I wanted to say.

Of course I could answer him.

But when the moment finally came…

I couldn’t.

My throat closed up.

My chest tightened.

It hurt to hear him cry.

Which was strange because all my life, I’ve stayed away from my dad physically and emotionally. It was almost like I didn’t know this man.

And I couldn’t understand why it hurt so much to hear him cry when all my life it felt like he wouldn’t have cared a dime if I had.

I knew that if I stayed on that call for more than ten seconds, I’d go back.

So I hung up.

Half crying, half wiping my face, I handed the phone back and asked the officers to leave.

Legally, they couldn’t stop me.

Eventually, they walked away.

At least, that’s what I thought.

By then, they already knew where I was going.

My flight details.

My destination.

Everything.

The one thing I’d been terrified of had already happened.

Landing

When I landed, my relatives were waiting outside.

Every exit.

Every terminal.

I panicked.

I ran into a washroom and changed my clothes, hoping they wouldn’t recognize me.

I still remember sitting on the bathroom floor, crying so hard I could barely breathe while strangers walked in and out, looking at me with confused expressions.

Nobody asked questions.

Nobody knew what to do with a girl crying on an airport floor.

Eventually, I stepped outside.

but they found me anyway.

They told me there was a missing person’s complaint.

That they only needed me to come to the police station to give a statement.

Once the paperwork was done, they said, I could leave.

I believed them.

That was my biggest mistake.

The moment I entered the station, every minute became another excuse to make me stay.

Every time I asked if I could leave, they found another reason to delay it.

They weren’t waiting for paperwork.

They were waiting for my parents.

By the time they arrived, I’d already lost.

I don’t think I need to describe what happened next.

The crying.

The emotional blackmail.

The manipulation.

The way everyone looked at me like I was just another stubborn teenager throwing a tantrum.

Nobody could understand that a home could hurt someone enough to make them run.

After hours of arguing, another relative got tired of talking.

He said there was no point anymore.

They’d just bring a car and take me home by force.

That’s when I ran.

Maybe I’ve watched too many movies.

But I did exactly what every desperate character does.

I screamed.

“Help!”

“Please, somebody help me!”

I ran as fast as I could.

People turned around.

They looked at me.

They looked at my family chasing after me.

And then…

They looked away.

And in that moment, I had lost all the hope, i knew i had to go back home with them.

I don’t blame them.

Nobody wants to get involved and accused of something worse.

But there is something terrifying about realizing that your life can depend on strangers…

…and discovering that it doesn’t.

That no matter how loudly you cry, no matter how desperately you beg, the world can simply keep walking.

That it would leave you to rot and sometimes that’s the kindest they could be.

While I was running, one line kept playing over and over in my head from a song.

It was funny, how even in this situation my life had a background music going on.

“Run as fast as you can for your life…”

It felt cinematic.

At one point they tried to corner me from every direction.

Again, too many movies.

I thought if I zigzagged between them, I’d get away.

Instead…

I fell straight into an open gutter.

Of all the moments.

Of all the days.

For the first time in my life.

I can still remember how disgusting it felt.

In that moment, all I could smell was the gutter, my failure, and my anger at a God who had finally decided to mock me.

They pulled me out.

Then those same hands started hitting me.

Kicking me.

And not to be too philosophical, but even in that moment it reminded me of times everyone around me pretended to help me, only to later stomp me down even more.

I don’t remember feeling much at first.

It almost felt unreal.

Until someone hit my head.

I remember thinking, almost casually,

“Oh…

That actually hurts.”

It’s strange what your brain chooses to focus on when everything is falling apart.

Later, another police station got involved.

I don’t remember most of what was said.

But one sentence has stayed with me ever since.

One officer laughed and said,

“Kids these days have watched too much Jab We Met. We’ll fix her. Don’t worry.”

I don’t think I’ve ever felt rage like that before.

Not because he misunderstood me.

Because he reduced my entire life to a movie reference.

As if all my pain, every decision I’d made, every sleepless night, every bruise, every tear…

…could be dismissed with one joke.

For a second, all I wanted was to flip the table in front of him.

To make him feel even a fraction of the anger sitting inside me.

Instead…

I agreed to everything.

The questions.

The medical examination.

The pregnancy test—even though I was on the third day of my period.

The doctors checking my body for signs of abuse.

And for the first time in my life…

I wished the bruises were worse.

I wished someone had hit me harder.

I wished my pain had left marks obvious enough that nobody could explain them away.

Because maybe then…

Someone would’ve believed me.

Coming Home

After that, the details don’t really matter because none of it changes the ending.

I remember reaching the place where we were supposed to stay until they booked our flight back home.

The air itself felt heavy.

Everything about that room suffocated me.

So I slept.

There wasn’t anything else I could do.

There was only one bed, so I slept beside my mom which was the last thing i wanted to do, but the pain was too much to bear.

The tickets were booked that very day.

We packed everything again.

I took a shower.

And before leaving, I put on one of my boyfriend’s hoodies.

I knew he couldn’t be there to hold me, so somehow his hoodie felt like the closest thing I had to a hug.

When I finally reached home, the very first thing I did was open my Notes app.

I wrote everything down.

Every conversation I could remember.

Every feeling.

Every detail.

Terrified that one day I’d forget.

That maybe, years later, I’d convince myself it wasn’t really that bad.

That maybe I’d stop trusting my own memory.

So I wrote.

Because memories fade.

Words don’t.

But how do you write about a life you never got to live?

How do you describe the room that was supposed to be yours?

The bed where you would’ve slept.

The roommate you already started having small talks with.

How do you write about the concert you never attended?

The cafés you never visited.

The streets you never got lost in.

The city that never became your home.

How do you grieve memories that don’t even exist?

I was supposed to wake up the next morning wearing my boyfriend’s oversized T-shirts that he was going to bring for me.

I was supposed to eat the aloo parathas his mom had already started preparing. The potatoes were already in the cooker.

I was supposed to reach that room with my college bag.

I was supposed to unpack.

I was supposed to figure out where everything would go.

I was supposed to miss my family after I got there.

I was supposed to struggle.

I was supposed to cry.

I was supposed to regret leaving some days and be grateful I left on others.

I was supposed to watch the sunrise from a city that was finally mine.

I was supposed to kiss him like nothing else in the world mattered.

I was supposed to cry on his lap.

I was supposed to slowly realize I deserved better.

I was supposed to dump him because he cheated on me.

I was supposed to fail.

Try again.

Get rejected.

Get better.

I was supposed to go to the brand shoots I’d already booked.

I was supposed to build a life.

A messy one.

A difficult one.

But one that was finally mine.

Instead…

I came home.

And all I could do was stare at my swollen, red toes.

I kept looking at them, wondering one thing.

Why didn’t they run faster?

Maybe that’s what grief really is.

Not mourning the life you had.

But mourning the life you almost touched.

The one the universe let you hold for just long enough to believe it was finally yours…

before taking it away again.

You’d probably think that was the worst day of my life.

It wasn’t.

For me, it was the happiest.

I’d do anything to relive those twenty-four hours, even knowing how they would end.

Thanks for making it to the end.

See you in the next story. If you’d like, you can subscribe below ♡

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A few days ago, I found myself going through old chats with my ex.

It was strange, seeing a version of myself that existed so long ago. Reading conversations I once thought I would remember forever, only to realise how much of it had already faded.

Maybe that’s the strangest thing about memories. They don’t always keep the things we want them to. Sometimes they preserve the smallest, most random pieces while letting go of things we thought would stay with us forever.

And somehow, my mind has created a museum out of all of it.

My first floor belongs to my parents. The walls are painted red, even though I’m not sure if they’ve always been the same way.

In this floor, I see all those versions of them I promised to burn.

I see myself walking in front of my mom, leaving her behind, turning my eyes away when she cries, closing the door loudly enough to not let my softness be heard.

Another version of me is polishing the edges of my voice while rubbing it through sandpaper.

“It’s not people pleaser behaviour, I just try to avoid fights,” I say, almost clearly seeing her reflection in me.

As I try to go to the second floor, the walls are painted deep purple, with images of the girl I swore I’d never be.

The messy, rebellious girl with desires she was never supposed to have.

And I don’t know whether I want to become her or whether I’m angry that a part of me wants to become her and so i never visit her properly

As I try to move to the third floor, a small girl in her school uniform and two pigtails grabs my legs.

She looks about eight, with a puzzled look in her eyes.

While trying to remove her hand, I notice strange marks around them. They don’t feel like self-harm marks, but something closer to marks left behind from repeatedly stabbing a pen.

I lean forward, trying to comfort her with a hug.

But she immediately pushes me away.

And because I know it all too well, I let her.

My third floor has bland walls, but unlike the other floors, I can hear a sound.

It’s not jazz or an orchestra playing in the background.

It’s the voices of all these men.

My ex. My crush. The college student I liked when I was thirteen. My childhood situationship. Along with all the others.

I can’t see their faces.

All I can hear are their voices.

Constantly telling me all the things I wish to hear, even though I’m not sure why it never feels believable enough.

It would be embarrassing to admit that I liked the pity of these men.

I know, I know. People would rather die than admit they want to be pitied.

But I loved knowing that someone saw my pain and decided to protect me from it.

But when I couldn’t control the power they had over me, I would leave.

And strangely, it never hurt.

Forgetting people by the next morning, even after promising myself I would hold onto their presence forever seems strange.

There were even times when I had to pretend to cry for them because I thought that was how I was supposed to feel.

I don’t know what I’m searching for in these men.

Maybe authority.

Maybe validation of my existence.

But even when they tell me everything I want to hear, something still feels wrong.

Because what I need is a voice.

A voice that could walk through this museum and tell me what happened if I ever forgot.

A voice that could tell me it was real.

A voice I could trust.

As I try to go to the final floor, wondering if I’ll finally find answers to the worries I keep beating myself up over, I find it completely empty.

Dusty.

Silent.

Nothing.

Maybe it’s because I never really imagined myself growing up.

I never imagined my marriage.

I never imagined my funeral either.

Maybe after all these years of wandering and borrowing parts of people, I don’t know what actually belongs to me anymore.

Maybe that’s why I can’t see my future.

Because unlike every other floor in this museum, there is nothing to remember.

And you can’t really borrow a future you know

I came across my marksheets from school when I was cleaning my room.

And suddenly I found myself standing in the graveyard of my accomplishments.

It was filled with A’s in science, maths, history with the occasional B in Arts. Frankly, I never considered art to be important enough as a subject in school.

It didn’t give me much praise the same way the other subjects did.

But nobody really tells you what happens when all this praise ends.

That when this audience leaves, you don’t stop performing.

You just perform for the next audience.

Teachers become friends.

Friends become strangers online.

Strangers become lovers.

Lovers become exes.

The audience changes, but somehow you’re still performing. Still hoping someone hands you another gold star and tells you you’re good.

I was the easy child growing up.

The kid who doesn’t rebel, is always in the top four of her class, the annoying topper kid who cries when she scores 38/40 in maths as if those two marks are enough to tell her she’s not worthy to be on this earth.

That one kid you only go to when you don’t have notes but don’t invite to birthdays.

Yeah, that one.

I remember telling my friends, almost jokingly, that I saw my books more than my parents.

They’d laugh and tell me that’s why I was every teacher’s favourite.

And I’d wear that like a badge of honour.

As if the high of all those praises could compensate for everything else.

Teachers have always praised me for being a good girl.

And ever since then, I’ve always chased those words.

The context changes.

The people change.

The intention changes.

But the feeling remains the same.

Looking back, I don’t think I was addicted to achievement.

I think I was addicted to what achievement proved.

That I was worth keeping around.

That I had earned my place.

Years later, I’d find the same feeling in places that had nothing to do with school.

There was a period of my life where older men online would tell me I was mature for my age.

Honestly, these men were losers and I knew it back then too.

It’s not like I was naive or didn’t understand what they were doing.

I did.

But I’d act a little more innocent than I actually was.

Let them explain things I already understood.

Pretend I didn’t know what they meant when they called me mature for my age.

Because I knew where it would lead.

The praise.

I knew exactly what they were doing. These men weren’t particularly clever and I wasn’t particularly naive.

But if acting dumb for a few minutes got me another gold star, another reminder that I was different, special, worth remembering, then I’d play the part.

And the funny thing is, I’d usually leave once I got it.

Once they had cried for me, missed me, opened up to me, needed me.

Once I had unlocked every hidden level and collected my reward.

I was done.

Sometimes they’d text me from different accounts months later, but I didn’t really care anymore.

I already got what I came for.

The badge.

The proof.

The feeling that out of all the people in the world, I was somehow the exception once again.

I still remember the first time my ex cried because he missed me.

It would be sadistic of me to say this, but fuck it, it felt good.

Not because he was hurting.

But because someone missed me that much.

Because someone had let me into a part of themselves they didn’t show everyone else.

Because once again, I got proof.

Proof that I mattered.

Proof that I was special.

Proof that I was worth remembering.

This might sound absurd, but that’s why I related so much to Fleabag when she wanted the priest.

Again, it’s not the sexual part of it.

(Maybe it is a little)

But mostly it’s the thrill.

The desire to be the exception.

The fantasy that if you can make the most unavailable person choose you, then maybe you’ll finally have enough proof.

And you’d think maybe it’ll be enough at some point.

That after achieving something, I’d finally be happy.

I would be.

For a while.

Long enough to perform my happiness in front of my audience.

Then it would disappear.

The goalpost would move.

The ambition would grow.

The audience would change.

And before I could even enjoy what I had, I’d already be chasing the next thing.

I’ve ran all this mile only to realise I don’t know who I am.

I don’t know what I want from myself.

What I want from life.

All I know is what I’m supposed to want.

What I’m supposed to say.

How I’m supposed to react.

It’s exhausting.

The strange thing about living for applause is that you can become incredibly accomplished while remaining completely lost.

And isn’t it ironic?

The art I never liked in school because I didn’t think it would earn me praise is one of the only things that belongs to me now.

My favourite colours.

A song that feels entirely mine.

My writing.

It’s not much, I know.

But it belongs to me.

Hidden from the audience.

In these moments, your mind has this annoying habit of giving you a recap of the most embarrassing things you’ve ever done.

The text you shouldn’t have sent.

The way you started stuttering mid-sentence in front of the class. (Yes, you did.)

The cruelty of these memories is that they always seem to arrive at midnight, and they all come at once.

As kids, we used to fear the monster under the bed.

We’d check desperately for it, not prepared for what we’d do if we somehow managed to find it.

We’ve been lied to.

The monster doesn’t appear when you’re a kid.

The first time it creeps under your bed is when you’re 13 and going through your first heartbreak.

The second time it appears is when you’re 16, treating your skin like something to punish.

Slowly, it starts visiting you more often.

Now this place feels more like home to the monster than it does to you.

The monster tries to grab my hand from under the bed each night, slowly.

With each grab, the whispers get stronger.

Louder.

Clearer.

It tells me the things people supposedly say behind my back. The mean, nasty things.

I used to push it away. Tell it that it was wrong.

But something has changed.

I no longer want to argue with it.

Because how can I?

After all, you can’t argue that flowers aren’t beautiful.

That the wind isn’t poetic.

It tells me people want to avoid me at any cost, like I’m leftover food waiting to be tossed out.

That it’s better if I show my emotions just enough to make people believe my sadness, but not so much that it becomes inconvenient.

Just pretty enough.

Because that’s the sweet spot.

It pulls me even closer when I try to run away, telling me, almost romantically,

“You belong to me.”

And what does a homeless heart need more than a home?

So I stayed.

It has started appearing in broad daylight too, walking behind me, but strangely, nobody seems to notice it.

Sometimes they do.

When I start delaying my replies and spending less time with them because I’ve started spending more of it with the monster.

Or when it tells me I’m not who I think I am.

It tells me I have a place to go when I’m no longer welcomed by even myself.

That people can leave, and will leave, time and time again, but the monster wouldn’t.

And isn’t it comforting, knowing you’re at least welcomed somewhere in the world with open arms?

When I was younger, I used to hide under the blanket, hoping the monster wouldn’t pull my legs.

And even though I’ve grown up now, I still hide from it.

Behind the glaring brightness of my phone.

Hoping the screen will stop me from noticing that the monster is pulling me closer.

Hoping it will quiet the whispers.

It never does.

Maybe because it isn’t trying to scare me anymore.

Maybe it’s trying to convince me to stay.

And the scariest part is how close I am to saying yes.

I get pissed whenever he talks with me for too long, interferes with my life or literally even breathes in my direction. That’s the kind of rage I carry towards him.

But it’s not supposed to be like this, right?

Fathers and daughters should have this inseparable bond,

where you gang up on your mom because she made something you didn’t like.
Where your dad covers up your lies for you because your mom will scold.
You could talk to him about anything and everything.

He’s supposed to be the one who teaches you chess.

Someone you go to when you’re exhausted of yourself.
Who claps for you even when you fail, because you tried your best.
Who gives you the best drink and takes the bad one.

Someone you share the same blood with.

Someone you see yourself in, whether you like it or not.

The eyes that look strangely familiar to him, or the shoulders vast as his.

Anger issues like him and the tendency to avoid like him.

Testing people like him, or being a coward like him.

People see you and instantly know he’s your father because of how insanely similar you look to him.

It’s not normal to dislike him right?

To hate his face so much you want to rip yours off because of how much it resembles him.

To hate his life, you swore to build one exactly different than him.

To conclude that a neglectful dad is much better than an overly involved one.

A dad you’re better off without.

He likes to surprise me with his presence.

Every time he comes back home after long gaps, he comes unannounced in hopes to surprise me.

Like other dads do while their kids cry and bawl their eyes out because they dearly missed their dad, and why wouldn’t they?

It’s their dad.

Someone who is supposed to be close to them.

But I hate surprises, especially his.

It robs me of my control, my time, my freedom, heck even my right to think what I want.

His surprise makes me dread so much, almost feeling like I’d be anywhere but here.

With him.

Performing for him.

Planning all my fun time to when he’s not home.

But it’s not like I woke up one day and decided to hate him.

It was a painfully slow process.

It started with him calling me beta rather than beti, then slowly with him trying to make my dreams his, telling me what I should dream, almost shoving it down my throat.

Every no from my side became a challenge for him to turn it into yes.

He always says this:

“When someone tells me no, i make them do exactly that”

The gap between the father I thought he was to the man he is fully shattered, when things at home crossed a line.

I still don’t fully have language to explain what he did to my mom.

But as I look into my mother’s eyes.
There wasn’t any hate for him, or anger for the way things were.
All I could see in her eyes were tears that were somehow defending him.
Telling me:

“It’s okay, it’s our matter, he didn’t mean to, he loves me, I provoked him.”

And in that moment, it felt like I entered an alternate reality, somewhere unimaginable. Because these are not the people I knew, not the ones I grew up with.

It slowly turned into him calling me only for a minute in an entire week to ask those same 3 questions.

How are your studies going on?
Did you eat?
How are you?

My mind had memorised every other question he could ask.

All the things that would offend him, creating a perfect response that looked true but imperfect enough to believe it.

As I started becoming the woman he hated, he too started becoming a person I never knew.

Because how could a dad call his own daughter the r word? How could he tell her that she was a bitch? A disgrace? That it was a mistake to birth her?

That she has too much freedom and he would beat the shit out of her with a bat if he was present there.

How could he?

Dads aren’t supposed to be like this, right?

My last straw was him defending his brother for abusing me.

That moment is almost too vivid. Like a nightmare you had yesterday but can’t seem to shake it off.

It’s not only him who hurt me, it’s also when my mom saw everything yet blamed it on my sharp tongue.
While the same uncle kept on hugging me, trying to soften the blow.
To convince that it was a mistake because I somehow provoked him.

The damage was done already. That was the day I shut myself out emotionally.

But did I?

Because I demand love from everywhere and everyone but him.

My father.

Because I know he’s not capable.

Maybe he will be, in the future. But not now. And it’s not my job to teach him.

It’s unfair to my younger self who was so confused by the way her dad behaved, who kept on wondering what’s wrong with her that her dad isn’t close to her.

Who buried herself in books to get a tiny praise from him.

Whatever she would do, however hard she studied, it just wasn’t enough.

I have built my guards up after a long time, the strongest ones and he doesn’t get to arrive whenever he wants, do a grand entry and command me to lower them.

Because that’s what he’s good at: commanding.

Making people obey him, fear him. Bow to him.

He likes to think of everyone like his puppet.

Even writing this makes me think, what will happen if he accidentally reads this. That he will tell me what I’m supposed to think and what I’m not.

And he will keep on trying and trying and trying until I give in. Until I become so hollow from how much he’s picked me apart, day by day.

He asks me if I trust him enough, but this time I ended up saying no.

That my trust shattered the moment he chose his brother over me.

Without missing a single beat he screamed at me.

Asking how can a daughter not trust her own dad?

He’s quite funny yk.

Asking me the same question I’ve spent years asking myself.

Thinking there’s something wrong with me.

So tell me father, you talk about giving me too much freedom, that I’m spoiled.

Is it really freedom if it’s conditional? Or is it control dressed up as convenience?

Tell me, do I scare you because I’m too much like you? Or because I’m too much unlike you?

Tell me, is it better to have a dead daughter than a free one?

It’s you who taught me chess yet you’re the one who gets upset when I defeat you.

I will try my entire life to wash away your sins from my soul, run away to places you’ve never been to, people you’ve never heard of, becoming the woman you’ve always despised.
A free one.

But even if I do this, I’ll still have to share your blood. Your eyes.

Your stupid habits you can’t shake off.

I want to be so much better than you but I end up closer to who you are.

I know father you see so much of you in me and maybe that’s why you fear me, control me.

Because you can’t control yourself.

I’m exhausted dad. Of being your daughter, can you please let me free from this life sentence?

As if laying them out wasn’t enough.

My therapist asked me a very similar question. I’ve been seeing her for like a month now. Super understanding.

Love her.

Not her questions.

She asked, “Why is it that touching bothers you so much?” to which my dumb brain replied, “idk,” and there she goes with her assignments.

She asked me to spend a week thinking about it. Urgh.

I wanted to procrastinate my way through it. I made something up while I was in the shower — that maybe touch has always felt unsafe.

Fuck, she told me that touch is safe here.

So I had no choice but to actually think it through.

But there’s a problem.

How do you describe the lack of something when you’ve never known it?

When you’ve always been astray from that warmth.

People always talk about the deer mistaking the warmth of headlights for her mother — but what if the deer has never known warmth at all?

Just like there’s no real way to describe nothing, that’s how I feel.

For context, I almost behave like a stray cat that’s been in the jungle all her life.

And when she’s finally adopted by an owner, she flinches. She’s scared. Confused.

She’s afraid of what will happen when she finally lets her guard down, and even more afraid of whether she’ll be able to put those guards back up again.

What if she misses the warmth so badly once she feels it that it becomes almost impossible to survive without it?

What happens when she decides that warmth is worth losing herself for?

That’s when it gets dangerous.

After a while, you start losing yourself for the warmth. Thinking of it as a fair trade. You edit the parts of yourself that are too much. Too loud. Too emotional.

And as time passes, the line between the real you and the edited you begins to blur.

And surprisingly, that’s when the warmth decides it’s about time it leaves.

You beg.

Shrink more.

Promise to be easier to love.

Promise to be the “real” you again, even though you’re not even sure which version that is anymore.

So you try everything, except this time you can’t stop the inevitable from happening.

You become the scared cat again.

Except now, you have a reference point for warmth.

You might have often heard people chanting this phrase “it's their first time living too, forgive them"

They chant it so hard one would say their life depends on it. As if God himself commanded to make it their life purpose.

They don't really understand the weight of what they say. The resentment they cause.

All they do is snatch away your hope. Imagine going through hell only to be told that you shouldn't mind the fire? That the fire didn't mean to harm you and couldn't help but do what seemed best.

Hearing it feels like being asked to thank the fire for not trying to fully ruin me.

Because wdym my pain didn't mean anything? Wdym my anger, my life i could've lived, those opportunities i sacrificed, the nights i prayed to this God I don't believe in to just take the pain away, the moments where I was the only person who I could trust myself with?

What about all those times?

I don't necessarily hate them is something you would never hear me say. Because I do. Passionately. Dearly.

And i do not accept any shame for it.

Forgiving them would mean twisting the knife in the back of the child who had to carry it all.

Who felt so lonely, she basically stopped feeling.

She navigated the world through a voice in her head — a shadow that grew more in the dark.

You do not get to abandon your children only to want them back because their anonymity scares you now. Because you're so afraid of them becoming their own person.

You're so cruel to finally come to this child when it learns to fly from the cage.

You come near the cage with food and warmth except that it's conditional and suffocating. Your love chokes her now.

She doesn't need it anymore.

She has learnt to provide it for herself.

She has finally learnt to accept that the fire would always burn her.

Even if it swears it won't.

Even when the fire repents deeply, it doesn't erase the burn.

It's not only cruel but harmful to ask a child to forgive such parents because you're teaching her that people can hurt her and get away with it.

That just because people are special to her, they get to ruin her.

Use her.

Toss her out like trash and not even feel sorry for it. Which is shameful.

So yes, they deserve neither forgiveness nor mercy just because they provided basic needs. Needs they treated like luxuries.

he’s been the first thought I wake up to

and the last one I fall asleep with

He came into my life

exactly when it mattered.

In my most vulnerable moments,

he never made me feel small for it

Instead, he gently met me there.

Like i was something worth caring for.

That warmth…

It felt like God himself placed a little sun under my feet.

like he's quietly sorry

for all the hurt he caused me.

I doubted it

not because of him

but because God and I never got along.

Yet, I accepted it—

thinking that this is where my sadness ends.

that I've been deserving of this softness all along.

So i let him run wild in my mind.

It's funny that I still carry the coins he gave me,

the tissues he handed me

like they could erase my pain.

And maybe they did.

On my worst days,

it's not my family i wish for

it's s his soft presence that I miss.

His hands that once wiped my tears.

telling me, without words,

that I don't have to carry everything alone.

But this version of us

only exists in my head.

So I learned his interests,

thinking it'll bring me closer to him.

And maybe it did, for a while.

And when he talks,

really talks—

I can't help but adore him .

He's like a rose to me

beautiful from afar,

but not meant to be held too close.

So i choose this instead;

to admire without reaching

wishing the best for him.

hoping he finds someone

who can meet him fully

And I've made peace over the fact

that it isn’t me.

Because not even God

could take those moments away.

It keeps you up all night, while the guilt slowly starts to eat you.

I ask myself, “what if I had just done it better?” as if replaying the situation is ever going to make it better.

Something similar has been on my mind since I failed to run away from my toxic family.

I never got along with my family.

Well, a part of me has accepted that I never will, and strangely… I don't even feel sad about it.

Maybe it's because I've never experienced warmth.

The kind of support that would reduce my burden.

A kind of space I could always come back to.

A place where maybe… just maybe I wouldn't need to prove myself or hate myself.

I have never been touched with pure intentions—even by my own family.

Only to threaten me, punish me, choke me, hold my hands to stop me from running away, or feet that would step on me.

I think it's comforting to never experience it, because who am I if not my desire to be loved and cared for?

If I've never known love and yet I crave it so deeply, I don't know what would happen if I did see even the tiniest glimpse of it.

Because if I ever get love, what do I even do with it?

I'm not afraid of lacking love, but of finally receiving it.

How do I accept that tenderness, knowing it might never last?

And most importantly, how would I stop it from consuming me?

Because what if I scare it away, for I don't believe in it?

How do I stop it from blinding me to the point that I won't care about anything else except getting that love?

So maybe it’s better this way—

to spend my life longing for something

I wouldn’t know how to keep

It's better that I've never known love, so I never demand it from my family.

Maybe this way I get to detach from them and stay away from them.

Maybe this longing for love is what makes me—me.