Friday 2024-12-6
Do you know what a man is? He stands tall, not because of his true strength, but because the world allows him to. His worth is tied to his money, his title, his ability to provide. He believes this makes him untouchable, invincible even, as if the earth itself should kneel beneath his feet. When he falters, the world forgives him without question. "He's just a man," they say, as if that erases every failure, every wound he's inflicted. Even when he fails as a father, as a protector, he is given grace he does not deserve.
But what about the woman? She's the one who picks up the pieces, who shoulders the burdens he casts aside. She carries his pride, his arrogance, and the invisible scars of his indifference. She is expected to endure, to forgive, to rise above, no matter how much she's been broken. If she stumbles, the world doesn't lift her—it tears her apart. Her mistakes aren't fleeting; they're weapons used to define her, to diminish her worth.
A man can shatter his responsibilities, yet the world still sees him as whole. A woman, with a single misstep, is seen as irreparable. Her strength is questioned, her tears ridiculed, and her anger silenced. "Why are you so emotional?" they ask, mocking the fire in her veins. But that fire isn't weakness. It is born of centuries of oppression, of battles fought in silence, of sacrifices unseen and unacknowledged.
They say a man's rage is power, but a woman's rage? That is a force the world isn't ready for. It's not just anger—it's the roar of generations denied justice. It's the strength of a thousand scars that refused to heal, a rebellion that grows louder with every act of dismissal and disrespect.
My mother is a caged bird, her wings clipped by sickness, her voice silenced by his disdain. She doesn't earn, so he calls her worthless. A failure. A burden. He looks at her as if she is less than human, as if her value begins and ends with what she can give him. Her only power, her only strength, is to watch me burn in the same flames that consume her. And yet, she whispers to me, "Everything will be fine one day."
But when will that day come? Will it be after I'm shattered beyond repair? After my soul withers under his shadow? She tells me, "Don't make the same mistake that got you beaten." But I ask myself—what mistake? What crime did I commit to deserve his wrath? What sin did I, his daughter, carry that made his hand rise against me? Is it because he is a man, because the world tells him that this power is his birthright? Is that why he thinks his anger is justified? Why the world turns a blind eye?
He is called a father, but where is the love in that title? Where is the protection, the kindness, the shelter? How does a man, who is supposed to nurture life, become the very reason it breaks? My mother tells me to stay quiet, to endure, to wait for a tomorrow that feels like a mirage. But how long must I wait? How many more days must I endure this suffocating silence, this crushing weight of injustice?
I prayed to God so many times, begging Him to save me, to pull me from the darkness that consumed my life. But I wasn't saved. Not then. Not now. My mother, weak and silent, never did anything to protect me. She only whispered, "Never take my side when your father and I fight."
Maybe she wanted me to survive, but, Mom, I never wanted to just survive. I didn't want to merely exist in this storm. I wanted to live—truly live. To feel the warmth of the sun on my face without fear, to breathe without that heavy weight of pain crushing my chest. I wanted to feel joy, to be free from the shadows of our broken home.
Surviving was never enough for me. It was never just about enduring each day, about getting through the endless cycles of anger and silence. I wanted more than that—I wanted a life, a future where I wasn't defined by the scars of the past.
But here I am, still trapped. Still waiting for a day when the prayers I've whispered into the void would finally be answered—not with survival, but with death.
I don't hate you, Mom, but sometimes, I hate myself. I hate that I was brought into this world only to suffer, only to feel this constant weight pressing down on me. It feels like my whole existence has been nothing but pain, a never-ending cycle that leaves me empty, like I was never meant for anything but this torment.
But, Mom, do you remember the first time Father told me to die? His words weren't just words—they were a command, a sentence. And in that moment, I said I would fulfill his wish.Looks like it's really happening this time.The God Himself has granted his wish.
I don't know how other men are, but when my protector—my father—is like this, I can't help but think that all men are the same. If the one person who is supposed to love and protect me can treat me like this, then how can I trust anyone else? How can I believe that there's goodness in the world when the person who should be my safe haven is the one who hurts me the most?
Rose stopped writing in her diary, her tears silently staining the pages. She stared at the words she had written, but they felt meaningless now. I really don't like hospitals, she thought, as the weight of everything around her pressed in. After taking some medicine, she returned home, bringing more medicine with her, but her parents said nothing, their silence a heavy reminder of how distant they had become.
The emptiness in the house mirrored the emptiness in her heart. Then, without warning, a searing pain ripped through her stomach. She collapsed onto her bed, her body too weak to fight it, and before she knew it, the darkness consumed her, and she passed out.
And in that darkness, the monster inside my head stirred—the monster that was no one else but my own mind. It whispered cruel, twisted thoughts, its voice the sharpest kind of agony, amplifying every fear and insecurity. The monster fed on my suffering, gnawing at my soul, convincing me that i was weak, that i was broken beyond repair. With every painful memory, it grew stronger, wrapping its tendrils around my thoughts, suffocating any hope i had left. There was no escape from it—this monster was me, and i could never outrun myself.
The monster in my mind doesn't just whisper—it screams, tearing through the walls I've built to protect myself. It forces me to see everything I've tried to forget, dragging me back to the darkest corners of my memories. The ones I thought I could bury forever. It reminds me, in excruciating detail, of how I was treated—how I was never more than an afterthought in their lives. How every glance, every word, every touch was a reminder of how small and insignificant I had become.
And with every passing second, it lets me feel the weight of my mistakes—the ones that haunt me in every waking moment. It shows me how I failed, how I was never enough. The greatest mistake I ever made, the one that cuts deeper than any scar, was simply being nothing more than a daughter. Just a daughter. A child who gave everything and received nothing in return. A child who was only seen when she was a tool to be used, a reflection of someone else's need.
This monster inside my mind holds me captive, forcing me to relive the pain again and again, and no matter how hard I try to escape, it's always there—lurking in the dark, reminding me that my greatest sin was existing as I was. The weight of it crushes me, pulls me under, and I don't know if I can survive it any longer.Even if each day is counted by my sickness, each breath feels heavier than the last. The clock ticks on, but it's not the passage of time that I fear—it's the weight of the pain that grows stronger with each passing moment. Every day is a reminder that my body is failing, that my life is slipping through my fingers, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. The sickness controls me, steals my strength, and leaves me wondering how many more days I have before it takes everything from me.