I Am What You See In Me

The months that followed felt like a haze of emotions I couldn't name. I carried on the best I could, though I had no sense of who I was or what I was feeling. My mother quit her job, saying it was to "take care of me," and I believed her. But that wasn't the truth. The real reason unraveled in the worst possible ways. We moved out of the home my parents had worked so hard for, trading stability for something much darker. The weight of everything that had happened crushed them, and instead of finding a way through it, they turned to alcohol. My life became a battleground. My parents fought relentlessly, their words cutting, their arguments escalating into violence. The police were called so often that the flashing red and blue lights outside our home became routine. The chaos was relentless, traumatizing not just me but my younger brother, Milo, too. And through it all, they had no idea how to help me. Instead, they chose to blame me. They hurled cruel words, twisting reality until I questioned my own experience. They insisted that what had happened to me was somehow my fault, that I had wanted it. I asked for help, but they dismissed me, claiming they were "trying." Yet all their effort seemed to go toward the person who had hurt me, justifying it with, "It's required by the state, otherwise we'll lose you and Milo too." I began to wonder if maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing. Maybe being taken away would be better than this. Each time I tried to speak up, even about the smallest things, I was met with dismissal. It didn't take long for me to realize that my voice didn't matter. So, I carried it all alone. With time, I became an expert in silence. At fifteen, I perfected the art of detachment of smiling when I was supposed to, pretending to be normal. Beneath the surface, I was unraveling, piece by piece. Imposter Syndrome took root in my mind, convincing me that I was nothing more than a hollow version of who I should be. Then came my first relationship. He was from the Golden State, and there was something about his energy that pulled me in. He later introduced me to marijuana, took my virginity, and eventually broke up with me. I was crushed although I knew I wasn't really in love. After that, I didn't take dating seriously. The idea of love had already been burned out of me. By then, I still hadn't learned how to cope the right way. So, I did what every lonely, depressed teenager seemed to do. I turned to drugs and alcohol. I told myself I was being smart, that I wouldn't do anything "too" dangerous. But addiction doesn't start with the hard stuff; it starts with the illusion that you're in control. At first, it was just an escape. A way to numb everything I didn't want to feel. I spent nights staring at the walls of my bedroom, high out of my mind, playing the same songs on repeat until I fell asleep. I didn't care about the damage I was doing to my body. I didn't care about anything at all. Not love, not feelings. I shut it all down. And in the quiet moments between the highs and the hangovers, I started dreaming. I dreamed of leaving. Of starting over somewhere new, somewhere on the West Coast, where the air was different and I wouldn't have to see the same people or relive the same pain day after day. I wanted peace. I just never knew where to find it.