Yes, I am angry , not because I want revenge, but because I deserved protection and never received it. I was a little girl with open hands and an open heart, begging to be loved, begging to be seen, begging for someone to hear what I was too young to say. Instead, I was met with silence. With belittlement. With neglect.
Don’t mistake moments of light for innocence. Even sunlight cannot erase the damage a storm leaves behind. And if I, as a mother, took in a child carrying that kind of pain, I would move mountains to make them feel safe. You didn’t. You knew my history, and still you chose judgment over comfort.
My mental health , something I never asked for and barely understood , became something you used. You turned it into a mirror for your own suffering. My pain became your story to tell. My wounds became your stage. I was bleeding, yet somehow you were always the one crying.
I was never a bad child. I was an unheard one.
You didn’t listen until I broke. Until my pain became loud enough to disrupt your world. Why did I have to shatter to matter?
Around you, no one else was allowed to feel. You claimed victimhood even when I was the one being hurt.
You watched the abuse happen. You stood there. Then you called it “disrespectful,” as if a child deserves harm for having a voice. As if breaking a spirit is discipline. As if you didn’t have a choice.
You enabled it. You excused it.
And then you hid behind perfection, pretending your hands were clean.
So tell me , where would these memories come from?
What child invents pain like this?
What girl carries wounds she imagined into adulthood?
I am angry because I was hurting , and you looked away until ignoring me was no longer an option.
Feb 9
Feb 9, 2026 at 9:45 AM UTC
Yes, I am angry , not because I want revenge, but because I deserved protection and never received it. I was a little girl with open hands and an open heart, begging to be loved, begging to be seen, begging for someone to hear what I was too young to say. Instead, I was met with silence. With belittlement. With neglect.
Don’t mistake moments of light for innocence. Even sunlight cannot erase the damage a storm leaves behind. And if I, as a mother, took in a child carrying that kind of pain, I would move mountains to make them feel safe. You didn’t. You knew my history, and still you chose judgment over comfort.
My mental health , something I never asked for and barely understood , became something you used. You turned it into a mirror for your own suffering. My pain became your story to tell. My wounds became your stage. I was bleeding, yet somehow you were always the one crying.
I was never a bad child. I was an unheard one.
You didn’t listen until I broke. Until my pain became loud enough to disrupt your world. Why did I have to shatter to matter?
Around you, no one else was allowed to feel. You claimed victimhood even when I was the one being hurt.
You watched the abuse happen. You stood there. Then you called it “disrespectful,” as if a child deserves harm for having a voice. As if breaking a spirit is discipline. As if you didn’t have a choice.
You enabled it. You excused it.
And then you hid behind perfection, pretending your hands were clean.
So tell me , where would these memories come from?
What child invents pain like this?
What girl carries wounds she imagined into adulthood?
I am angry because I was hurting , and you looked away until ignoring me was no longer an option.