Round Two

My day started calm. I woke up later than usual, because I could. No point in forcing myself up early for a shift that feels like it’s going nowhere.

On the way out, I decided to try some Paneer Makhani for later. It was good… subtly spicy, but not what I had hoped for. The Chana Masala tasted better in my opinion — probably because I didn’t have it cold. Small things like that stick with me.

My shift was empty as usual. Alone, going through the motions. Cleaning. Moving. Existing.
But I wasn’t really there. I was where I belong — inside myself. No distractions. Just thought.

Then something surfaced. Something I heard earlier… people talking about the abuse they experienced growing up. And suddenly, memories came back. Not new ones. Just the ones I had buried. Hidden. The ones I trained myself not to touch.

I never had real freedom growing up. Not like the lucky few. Any time a child tried to be honest with their parents or friends, they were met with backlash, ridicule… punishment. Vulnerability was bait. Trust was a trap. You showed your hand once, and it was used against you later.

So I stopped reaching.

For years, nothing felt real with anyone. No real friends. No real family. Just titles. Roles. Power dynamics. I learned young that nothing would ever belong to me — not safety, not space, not even identity — because there would always be someone ready to take.

My estranged brother… ten years older than me. I think our mother’s manipulation affected him the most. He became her in the moments it mattered. Especially with me.

Remembering how I was treated — and seeing those same patterns repeat — solidified something permanent inside me.

As long as I stay around any of my relatives, I can never become the best version of myself. They will always sabotage. Always attack. Not always loudly. Sometimes quietly. But always.

I’ve seen it for years.

Now all that’s left is the long, agonizing journey toward change… and the relief that might come with it.

I have to endure. Even with the constant yearning to connect with others. Because their influence poisons everything. I’d spend my life detoxifying their mess, over and over, until the day they’re gone.

And honestly… I wouldn’t go to any of their funerals.

Why would I? We’re already strangers. We stopped existing to each other a long time ago.
On my end, it isn’t malice. It’s acceptance. A quiet removal. That’s all.

I hope that in death, they forget me… the same way I will forget them when the time comes.

Thinking about how damaged I feel around them makes me sad. Failed by everyone, yet I’m still cleaning their mess? Still carrying it?

The problem is… I naturally want connection. With people. With the world.
But who would want to connect with me if that poison follows me into every conversation?
How can I ask for closeness when I’m still carrying what they put inside me?

Am I the poison now?

My dream is simple. Influence the world. Explore everything it has to offer. Smile while doing it.
But what would I be spreading in the state I’m in?

There’s so much inner work left to do.

Telling my boyfriend the truth — the harsh, ugly parts of my pain — hurt more than anything. But I don’t fear pain anymore. I fear lies. They’re my real enemy.

I’d rather a killer be honest with me than a gentle liar pretending to care.

At least with him… I can speak. I can say anything.

I used to think wanting a relationship with anyone was failure. Weakness. A disease. And for a long time, that belief made sense. I was surrounded by people who didn’t know how to love genuinely. Men are always going to cheat. Everyone does — at least that’s what I learned from watching.

So I stayed quiet. Watched. Obeyed. Because speaking meant punishment. Sometimes being hit. Sometimes going hungry.

Romantic relationships looked even worse. Everyone I saw who lived like me ended up in something broken. Someone cheated. Someone fought. Someone left. Someone died. It never lasted. It never felt real. Any relationship just meant more manipulation, more lies, more stress. You’d have to be an absolute fool to even entertain romance.

Even when my mother brought in a stepdad… it wasn’t hope. It was just more problems.
In my world, less always meant more.

If I ever entered a relationship, I’d be shamed for it. Silenced. Reduced to property. Just another dumb woman claiming to love a man without status, without a voice.

So I never told them who I date. They don’t know my life beyond a “hi” and “bye.”
And if they did know, they’d turn it into their achievement somehow. Another greedy hand in the cookie jar the moment they’re hungry.

Reach for your own mess instead.

I already accepted what would happen if I chose myself fully. I’d probably lose them. Maybe everything. Maybe even my life as I know it.

But every step in the right direction leads away from them… and away from the illusion that there ever was a “them” to begin with.

Some people just don’t need to exist in your world anymore.

And yet… good thing he wants me. Imperfections and all.
What could’ve broken us apart actually didn’t.

I finally learned how to cry in the ways that matter — not in plain sight through the heart, not while pretending I’m perfectly fine until i believe it.

This feels real.
Not like I’m hoping for something that will never come.

I think i'll stop writing here for today.