There are three of us.
But only two are ever really seen.
My sister—the golden one,
My brother—the untouchable.
And me…
somewhere in between
love and disappointment.
I think my mom loves me.
I think.
But she doesn’t like me.
Not really.
She says things like
“Did I punish you after you wanted to jump off that bridge?”
and calls it kindness.
Calls it grace.
As if not screaming at a suicidal daughter
deserves applause.
She uses my pain like a weapon.
Waves my scars in my face
when I try to speak up.
“Why are you so dramatic?”
“Why are you never happy?”
“I gave you everything.”
No, mom.
You gave me silence.
Guilt.
Tears I learned to hide in pillows.
You gave me the kind of love
that only hurts.
My brother breaks something—
he gets a hug.
I breathe wrong—
and I get told
I ruin everything.
I flinch when people raise their voice.
I shake in bakeries.
I can’t even say “one roll, please”
without my hands trembling.
Because what if they laugh?
What if I say it wrong?
What if I’m too much again?
I’m tired.
Not like sleepy.
Like… my soul wants to leave.
Like my body is here
but the rest of me
checked out years ago.
I cut because I need to feel
something that makes sense.
Because at least pain on my skin
is something I can control.
But her words?
Her words stay longer.
Her words dig deeper.
I know I need help.
But how do you ask for air
when everyone else is already breathing?
Sometimes I wonder
what it would take for someone to really see me.
Not the grades.
Not the breakdowns.
Not the cuts.
Me.
I’m the middle child.
But maybe I was just
the space between
people who matter.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 4:44 PM UTC
There are three of us.
But only two are ever really seen.
My sister—the golden one,
My brother—the untouchable.
And me…
somewhere in between
love and disappointment.
I think my mom loves me.
I think.
But she doesn’t like me.
Not really.
She says things like
“Did I punish you after you wanted to jump off that bridge?”
and calls it kindness.
Calls it grace.
As if not screaming at a suicidal daughter
deserves applause.
She uses my pain like a weapon.
Waves my scars in my face
when I try to speak up.
“Why are you so dramatic?”
“Why are you never happy?”
“I gave you everything.”
No, mom.
You gave me silence.
Guilt.
Tears I learned to hide in pillows.
You gave me the kind of love
that only hurts.
My brother breaks something—
he gets a hug.
I breathe wrong—
and I get told
I ruin everything.
I flinch when people raise their voice.
I shake in bakeries.
I can’t even say “one roll, please”
without my hands trembling.
Because what if they laugh?
What if I say it wrong?
What if I’m too much again?
I’m tired.
Not like sleepy.
Like… my soul wants to leave.
Like my body is here
but the rest of me
checked out years ago.
I cut because I need to feel
something that makes sense.
Because at least pain on my skin
is something I can control.
But her words?
Her words stay longer.
Her words dig deeper.
I know I need help.
But how do you ask for air
when everyone else is already breathing?
Sometimes I wonder
what it would take for someone to really see me.
Not the grades.
Not the breakdowns.
Not the cuts.
Me.
I’m the middle child.
But maybe I was just
the space between
people who matter.
I didn’t even realize I still had this one. I thought I already published it. I’m sorry. It kinda is about living as the middle child with a mother who only cares when I get taken from the police to a mental asylum. It’s about how I’m in the shadow of everything but at the same time the only one who has to be perfect. These quotes are things my mother actually did say to me.
It’s now about four months after I’ve written this one. Now, my parents are separated, and I live with my dad. The relationship between my mom and me got WAY better, the one with my dad way worse though. Also, I’m back in therapy. I used to be about 1.5 years ago; my dad ended it without me knowing. Now, he’s mad at me for weeks already because my mom got me a new therapist without me telling him. He’s literally mad at me for needing help I’m not getting from him. Also, sorry for the yapping☝🏻