The Outsider
For as long as I can remember, I never fit in. Not at home, not at school, not at college, not even at work. I was the odd one—the quirky, weird kid. And over time, that feeling of being an outsider became a permanent part of me.
At home, I wear the title of selfish narcissist, a label carelessly thrown at me despite psychological assessments proving the opposite. But by then, the damage was done—my heart, my mind, my sense of self, all fractured beyond recognition.
The cruel irony? My family loves me. I know they do. But they are also the ones who hurt me the most.
I adored my sister once. She was everything I looked up to—strong, capable, admired. But lately, I’ve become her punching bag. I know she’s fighting her own battles, but am I not human too? Am I not allowed to hurt? My family reminds me every day why the phrase hurt people hurt people exists.
Outside my home, it’s no different. Friendships never last. We grow close, and then—without warning—they leave. Over and over again. I’ve stopped expecting anything different. Trust is a foreign concept now. Love, even more so. My goals, my dreams, my desires—one by one, they’ve all disappeared. What’s the point when nothing ever stays?
And yet, despite it all, I tried.
I wanted fashion. Then I wanted to cook. I changed my mind because the family needed money. So, I let those dreams go. Then, I begged to pursue styling, but that, too, was denied. My sister? She was always given the freedom to choose. She was taught to handle life. I was told to endure it.
But endurance has a breaking point.
And mine came the day I realized I was never truly safe. A man I once called a friend tried to assault me, not once but several times. I ran, but no matter how far I go, I still feel like that scared, defenseless girl. I don’t want to be her anymore.
But my family expects me to understand them—their pain, their anger, their struggles—while no one ever stops to understand me.
The only person who ever did was my grandfather. He was my safe place, my one constant. And even in his final moments, he was thinking of me—washing my clothes when he slipped, fell, and never got back up. Surgery failed. He was gone.
I never believed in those cheesy, filmy lines about losing your sun, moon, and earth. But when he died, the ground beneath me really did crumble. I stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. Stopped caring. My grades collapsed. My teacher, concerned, reached out to my parents. Their response? Screaming.
If not for my best friend, I wouldn’t be here today.
But I am. And I’m still fighting.
For years, I was nothing more than a punching bag. But somewhere along the way, I grew a spine. And I refuse to let my world shatter again. My family dynamics will not change—but I can change how I react to them.
One day, the best moment of my life will come—the day I finally find the peace and belonging I lost with him.
And if you’re reading this, feeling even a fraction of what I feel—know that you are not alone. You deserve better.
We both do.
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