In the vast expanse of this world, I stand alone. No husband to lean on, no love to warm my heart, and the yearning for my mother’s affection stretches back through the years like an endless, unfulfilled promise. My sister—how she’s always there, but only to keep me at a distance from the one connection I crave. Today was no different. I did nothing wrong, merely sat quietly after finishing my share of the chores, indulging in a brief escape with a movie. Yet, she pulled me away from my mother, as if my very presence were a threat.
In a moment of unguarded frustration, I let my anger slip through the cracks. Words, sharp and unmeasured, escaped my lips—words I knew should have remained unspoken. But the pressure had been building, and it was only a matter of time before it erupted. What they didn’t see—what they refused to acknowledge—was that this outburst was not born in a vacuum. It was a consequence, a mere reaction to the relentless provocation and the callous behavior of my sister.
Yet, instead of understanding, they seized upon my anger as if it were the sole transgression. They cornered me with it, using it as the perfect excuse to isolate and blame me. My words became the weapon they needed to justify their actions, ignoring the deeper wounds that had led to this moment.
I stood alone, the weight of their judgment heavy on my shoulders, all the while knowing that it was not my anger that was the real issue, but what had driven me to it. The repercussions of my sister’s actions were conveniently forgotten, leaving me to bear the brunt of it all.
I find myself dreaming of another life—a house that is truly my own, a career that fulfills me, and a future where I can be with my children, far removed from this place that has only ever brought me pain. I yearn for distance, for a clean break from everyone here. I’m done blaming myself for things I didn’t do. I’ve tried so hard to fit into their world, but I know now that I never will. This place, these people—they are not my home.
Today, my mother wished me dead. She didn’t say it in anger or jest, but as if it were a fact—a truth born from the love she reserves for her second child and nothing more. I don’t belong here. I never have. I am, and have always been, on the outside looking in.
Life here is a performance, a never-ending play where I must pretend—pretend to be happy, to be normal, even when I’m falling apart inside. I want to be silent, to withdraw into myself, and run—run far, far away.
But the madness is creeping in. I pray, oh how I pray, to stay sane, to find some semblance of happiness. Does she really want me dead? Am I so undeserving that even my existence is a mistake? Who will love me if I am not loved here? Is this my fate, to live out my days in this desolation? And my children—will they turn away from me too, leaving me just as deprived in the end?
Am I the struggle, or is it the struggle within me that tears me apart? I can no longer tell. I’m exhausted—completely and utterly done. Every fibre of my being screams for escape, a desperate plea for just a day or two away from this relentless battle. I need to distance myself from the hurdles that life throws at me, to find a place where I don't even have to confront the shadows that follow me, where I can exist without the burden of my own reflection.
I’m at the end of my rope, longing for a sanctuary so far removed from this pain that even if I were to be torn apart, piece by piece, I might finally find some semblance of peace. I don’t care anymore; let them kill me, rip me to shreds—it doesn’t matter. I’ve reached a point where I am done—truly done—with it all.
