My mother should have aborted me.
I say this not to create drama, but in the name of logistics. Like something that should have happened had someone taken a step back and looked forward clearly enough—at what life might have been without another mouth to feed, another life to account for.
I do not remember my childhood as carefree. I remember it as accounting.
Not in the literal sense, but in the way children learn to measure things long before they understand what measurement costs them. I learned early to read hesitation. To tell when desire was allowed and when it was already too much. I learned sacrifice before I understood safety. Money, favors, obligations, survival—these were always present, even when unspoken, shaping everything at the edges.
Children are not supposed to carry the emotional bookkeeping of a household, but I grew up inside it anyway. Hearing who helped, who lent, who kept things from collapsing. Slowly, I stopped feeling like a child being raised and started feeling like something that had to be carefully accounted for in order for things to hold.
And eventually, I stopped noticing the difference.
I think this is why I became so reluctant to ask for things.
It was never that I didn’t want anything. I wanted a lot. I just learned early that wanting had consequences that didn’t always need to be spoken. So I learned to scale myself down before anyone else had to. I became practical, self-contained, easy to manage.
What people call independence is sometimes just adaptation that no one questioned long enough to see as anything else.
There is a particular loneliness in being the person everyone trusts to figure it out. You become useful in a way that erases urgency. When you are capable, your effort stops registering as effort. When you keep going, people stop checking whether you are okay while going.
And I think that is where jealousy started.
Not for things. For something quieter. The way some people are held in mind without effort. The way their needs exist before language. The way care is already there, untriggered, unearned.
I don’t think I was ever taught that kind of attention was normal.
So I learned to become understandable instead of being understood.
Sometimes I buy myself things I don’t need, and it isn’t really about filling anything. It’s about proof. That I can still recognize myself clearly enough to choose something that feels like me. That I haven’t completely lost the ability to be reflected accurately, even if only by myself.
But it never fully replaces what it is responding to.
One of my dreams is to exhume my grandparents’ bones and reinter them somewhere gentler. Somewhere that feels less like disappearance happened slowly and more like care finally arrived afterward. Somewhere that signals return instead of neglect.
Sometimes I think about how easily a life becomes something visited less and less. Not because it stops mattering, but because attention doesn’t come back the same way.
Not erased. Just gradually unclaimed.
What unsettles me is not death, but becoming unvisited while still existing in memory.
The fear that struggle doesn’t end—it disperses, quietly, across generations.
This is where things become harder to explain.
There was a day we went to the movies. I was already carrying an anger I didn’t yet have language for. It stayed in me on the way home, tightening without shape. When we got back, my mother and I argued in my room. Her voice filled everything. Even with the door closed, it didn’t stay contained. It moved through the house anyway.
To her, it was necessary.
To me, something inside me stopped holding together cleanly.
Afterwards, I couldn’t settle. My thoughts wouldn’t stay in place. Everything felt overstimulated, like my mind had lost its ability to organize itself into something stable.
So I took all my benzodiazepines at once.
I didn’t experience it as a decision. It felt more like something already in motion finally completing itself.
What I remember most is not fear or panic. It is how quickly everything tried to return to normal afterward. Not rupture. Not interruption. Just continuation. As if nothing had changed shape enough to require anything else to respond.
That stayed.
Not the moment itself, but the fact that it didn’t seem to register as something that should have altered anything.
After that, I became more controlled. Not in a disciplined way. In a protective way. I learned how to keep myself from becoming too visible in my own distress. How to keep functioning without requiring interruption.
Because I understood what it meant when something does not interrupt anything at all.
So I don’t ask easily anymore. I don’t stop easily. I don’t let things spill into spaces where they might need to be acknowledged.
There are days I rehearse what I will say before I say it, just to make sure it doesn’t take up too much space. Days where I finish things alone because needing someone feels heavier than doing it badly. Days where I go quiet without noticing I’ve done it, as if silence arrives faster than intention.
And still, nothing outside really changes.
The house keeps moving. Time keeps moving.
As if nothing ever had to stop.
There are days I say something and realize no one responds, even though I am sure I spoke.
I check later to make sure my voice happened.
It did.
May 28
May 28, 2026 at 10:19 AM UTC
My mother should have aborted me.
I say this not to create drama, but in the name of logistics. Like something that should have happened had someone taken a step back and looked forward clearly enough—at what life might have been without another mouth to feed, another life to account for.
I do not remember my childhood as carefree. I remember it as accounting.
Not in the literal sense, but in the way children learn to measure things long before they understand what measurement costs them. I learned early to read hesitation. To tell when desire was allowed and when it was already too much. I learned sacrifice before I understood safety. Money, favors, obligations, survival—these were always present, even when unspoken, shaping everything at the edges.
Children are not supposed to carry the emotional bookkeeping of a household, but I grew up inside it anyway. Hearing who helped, who lent, who kept things from collapsing. Slowly, I stopped feeling like a child being raised and started feeling like something that had to be carefully accounted for in order for things to hold.
And eventually, I stopped noticing the difference.
I think this is why I became so reluctant to ask for things.
It was never that I didn’t want anything. I wanted a lot. I just learned early that wanting had consequences that didn’t always need to be spoken. So I learned to scale myself down before anyone else had to. I became practical, self-contained, easy to manage.
What people call independence is sometimes just adaptation that no one questioned long enough to see as anything else.
There is a particular loneliness in being the person everyone trusts to figure it out. You become useful in a way that erases urgency. When you are capable, your effort stops registering as effort. When you keep going, people stop checking whether you are okay while going.
And I think that is where jealousy started.
Not for things. For something quieter. The way some people are held in mind without effort. The way their needs exist before language. The way care is already there, untriggered, unearned.
I don’t think I was ever taught that kind of attention was normal.
So I learned to become understandable instead of being understood.
Sometimes I buy myself things I don’t need, and it isn’t really about filling anything. It’s about proof. That I can still recognize myself clearly enough to choose something that feels like me. That I haven’t completely lost the ability to be reflected accurately, even if only by myself.
But it never fully replaces what it is responding to.
One of my dreams is to exhume my grandparents’ bones and reinter them somewhere gentler. Somewhere that feels less like disappearance happened slowly and more like care finally arrived afterward. Somewhere that signals return instead of neglect.
Sometimes I think about how easily a life becomes something visited less and less. Not because it stops mattering, but because attention doesn’t come back the same way.
Not erased. Just gradually unclaimed.
What unsettles me is not death, but becoming unvisited while still existing in memory.
The fear that struggle doesn’t end—it disperses, quietly, across generations.
This is where things become harder to explain.
There was a day we went to the movies. I was already carrying an anger I didn’t yet have language for. It stayed in me on the way home, tightening without shape. When we got back, my mother and I argued in my room. Her voice filled everything. Even with the door closed, it didn’t stay contained. It moved through the house anyway.
To her, it was necessary.
To me, something inside me stopped holding together cleanly.
Afterwards, I couldn’t settle. My thoughts wouldn’t stay in place. Everything felt overstimulated, like my mind had lost its ability to organize itself into something stable.
So I took all my benzodiazepines at once.
I didn’t experience it as a decision. It felt more like something already in motion finally completing itself.
What I remember most is not fear or panic. It is how quickly everything tried to return to normal afterward. Not rupture. Not interruption. Just continuation. As if nothing had changed shape enough to require anything else to respond.
That stayed.
Not the moment itself, but the fact that it didn’t seem to register as something that should have altered anything.
After that, I became more controlled. Not in a disciplined way. In a protective way. I learned how to keep myself from becoming too visible in my own distress. How to keep functioning without requiring interruption.
Because I understood what it meant when something does not interrupt anything at all.
So I don’t ask easily anymore. I don’t stop easily. I don’t let things spill into spaces where they might need to be acknowledged.
There are days I rehearse what I will say before I say it, just to make sure it doesn’t take up too much space. Days where I finish things alone because needing someone feels heavier than doing it badly. Days where I go quiet without noticing I’ve done it, as if silence arrives faster than intention.
And still, nothing outside really changes.
The house keeps moving. Time keeps moving.
As if nothing ever had to stop.
There are days I say something and realize no one responds, even though I am sure I spoke.
I check later to make sure my voice happened.
It did.