I wrote the following quote about a character,
“She wrote her autobiography in metaphors and similes because her life was obscured by half-truths and broken memories.”
The more I reread this, the more I wondered if I actually wrote it about myself. My whole life has been a cautious exercise in not tarnishing my family name. Every journal I wrote was seized and psychoanalyzed. Every thought I had analyzed and overanalyzed. Criticized and critiqued. Torn apart and left for vultures.
I learned to write in code. I began to write in metaphors and poetic language, not to expand my skills, but to survive. I was often mocked, labeled, and torn apart by my own friends and family. I am, at this point, so damn tired of trying to please people. I am so tired of apologizing for my past, my mistakes, things I did that are held against me, despite all my best efforts to change. Yet every good decision I made is ignored because of the mistake that preceded it.
I’m tired of being haunted by my past. I’m tired of being told I’m forgiven, only to have my sins thrown in my face on a heated discussion. I’m so damn tired. I feel like collapsing and giving up, but I’m resilient, I’m a fighter, and I’m going to keep on fighting.