They said we were close. But close isn’t the word.
It was tight. Suffocating.
Like being wrapped in plastic with no air holes.
They called it love.
But it felt like a list of expectations I never agreed to.
You don’t question the rules. Or make your own choices.
And you don’t breathe too loudly.
Because someone will take it personally.
They’d say, “We just want what’s best for you.”
But “best” always meant what they wanted.
I couldn’t pick a school without drama.
A job without commentary.
Even the way I dressed was up for discussion.
Apparently, everything about me was up for discussion.
I remember thinking,
This is just how families are.
Maybe everyone walks on eggshells.
Maybe this is how everyone feels.
But then I met people whose families
didn’t make them feel small.
Who didn’t guilt them for existing.
Didn’t demand loyalty like some twisted tax.
And I started to realise
I wasn’t just “the difficult one.”
I was just… tired.
Tired of having to explain myself.
Of pretending their behaviour was normal.
Tired of being made to feel guilty
for wanting peace.
One day, I asked my therapist,
“Have I just become numb?”
She didn’t answer right away.
Just looked at me with that face
that says: You already know.
And I did.
It wasn’t love.
Not really.
It was control.
Wrapped in tradition.
Laced with guilt.
Masked as care.
And now, I’m slowly unlearning.
Letting myself feel again.
Trusting that I’m allowed to exist
outside the roles they wrote for me.
Reviewed April 2025. Always consult a professional for individual guidance.
