Weeks went by, dragging their weight on me, but there was one unexpected silver lining—my parents, finally, had left the house. Their absence was a small, quiet victory. No more shouting matches when I came home from school, no more tension that seemed to suffocate the air. For the first time in what felt like forever, I could breathe. Yet, in their absence, I realized something crucial: when they were around, I had to wear a mask, be someone I wasn't. I was fake, pretending, and exhausted from the endless cycle of school and the demands of my own mind.
Just when I thought things were getting better, a small crack appeared—an issue, seemingly minor, crept into my heart. It spread like cancer, silent, invisible, but deadly. It started small, but it hurt. And I couldn't escape it.
I know what you're thinking—talk to your parents, right? They're there to help, to listen. But for me, that's never been the case. Let me show you why. My mother, she's a good person, don't get me wrong, but she's consumed with her reputation, her job. She's not the kind of person I can turn to when I need to bleed my soul. It's not that she doesn't care; it's just that talking to her about something so heavy, so raw, is impossible. And then there's my father—someone I've never understood. I know he loves me, in his own twisted way, but the way he shows it… it's wrong. He thinks that giving me everything I could ever want is enough to make me happy, to ensure I have a perfect childhood. I spent years watching other kids at the park, playing with their fathers, laughing, sharing moments. But not me. My father never treated me that way.
Instead, I was excluded, ignored. No matter how old I got, I was always on the outside, never part of the family conversations. The weight of that loneliness crushed me, and for a long time, I hated him for it. I hated him for the way he raised me, the way he never helped me learn from my mistakes. When I messed up, he didn't teach me. He beat me. With his boots. With his belt. The bruises didn't just show on my skin; they burrowed deep into my soul. The only reason I acted out, the only reason I caused trouble, was because I wanted them to notice me. I wanted them to care. But instead of sitting down and talking about my actions, my consequences, they screamed. They hit. They made me feel like nothing.
And now, I can't trust them. How could I? That kind of treatment creates wounds that never heal. It planted a seed of depression inside me—deep, dark, and growing—until it became too much to handle. But in the chaos, I made a vow: if I ever had a child, I would never treat them like that. I would love them. I would show them affection in every way possible, even if I didn't know how. I would ask for help. I would try. Because I know the pain that comes from not being seen. And that's not the kind of father I want to be.
You see, the problem isn't just with my parents. It's the trauma they carry from their own pasts. My dad, for all his flaws, was noble to his mother and brothers. But in our home? It was like a mask he wore, his anger switching on and off like a light. He would burst, directing all that fury onto me or my poor mother. The house was suffocating with rage, and I started to wonder if that's just how things were meant to be. Maybe this was all I deserved. Anger was the only language I knew.
Every week felt the same. School, fake smiles, pretending to care about conversations with people like Kayne, talking about spiritual stuff I didn't believe in, working hard just to get As on tests. It was all so exhausting. The cycle never broke. I would get home, spend weekends buried in books, or pretend to enjoy fake calls with a so-called best friend. I hated the monotony, the fakeness of it all. I wanted a break from this life. I wanted to sleep in, read, relax, watch shows like The Politician—but that kind of dream felt so out of reach, so impossible.
Then, came March. A twist of fate—or maybe just a cruel joke—when my parents told me we were moving to an island they rented because of Covid. A pandemic that shook the world, shutting down economies, disrupting everything. For me, it meant no graduation party. But in a strange way, I didn't mind. Being surrounded by happy, excited people always made me nauseous. It felt like the world had finally given me a gift, a break from pretending to be happy, a chance to breathe. But, as always, life wasn't done with me.
The school kept going, but online now. And I hated it. It should've been a relief, right? No need to wake up early, no need to sit in those suffocating classrooms. But no, it made my nights worse. Without the structure of school, I couldn't sleep. I spent my nights playing Sonic games or dancing around the room, pretending I could escape. But when the morning came, I felt like a walking corpse. My head pounded like I'd been hit by a truck. My body burned with no reason. I drank coffee to stay awake, participating in class more than usual, helping teachers as everyone else slept through it. It was a weird kind of rebellion. But on exam days? Everyone cheated. And I had the chance, too. But I didn't. I didn't need to. I already knew the answers.
I've watched countless videos, listened to people complain about how high school doesn't prepare us for the real world. I agree. It doesn't. It teaches us about things we'll never use. Nature, the universe. Useless, right? But then, when you're driving and your tire goes flat, or you don't know how to care for your body, or even how babies are made, suddenly all that knowledge comes rushing back. High school doesn't just prepare us for math problems; it teaches us how to survive. But it's also a jungle, a place where only the strongest thrive. And the weak? They're picked on, ignored, made to feel invisible.
I've spent my life watching people like the jocks rise to the top, thinking they have it all. And for what? The power to bully, to make the rest of us feel small? The school isn't to blame. We are. We give too much value to people who don't deserve it. We give them power, and in return, we all lose. Because we're just human.