Hey. It’s me again. Why do I write only when I’m really down as if the only time I seek the comfort of written words is only at my lowest. I promise I’m more often happy than I’m sad. But here we are again.

Words are free but the way you use it might cost you something. I don’t usually hear what people say about me (lies, I do it all the time and overthink it, but for the purpose of this let’s all believe that bullshit) but this time it’s different. This time, the mean words come from the one closest to you, the one related to you, or you as one might call family. When I was still in school, we have to write countless of facts about us, SWOT analysis, and our plan or goals in life. One might say I master all of that superficial stuffs because let’s just be honest that I’m good at building an image where I know what I want when in reality I don’t, or maybe do but just too afraid to talk it out loud. But one thing I know for sure is that I do it all for my family, for my parents, and that’s the fact. One of the thing I realized is that I read this ironic tweet one day “Living at home is rent-free but it costs you your mental health” and only after spending one year being home, I feel that. At first it was a temporary stay, but now? I have nowhere to escape. You’re supposed to feel the comfort of home with your family but I don’t, I’m afraid to go home every time I go out. I’m afraid of waking up every morning and facing the same words, the same dirty looks, and the same accusations. I’m afraid being in the house supposed to call home. I did all of this for the only ‘home’ I knew my whole life, but now that illusion is blurred. Where does this pain starts or end I would never know. I don’t know what’s normal and what’s not because I never tell anyone about anything. Was it wrong all these years but because I grew up not knowing anything else and having the mindset that all that happened was normal? All that pressure and gaslighting and sicko words was ordinary? I know nothing yet it costs me everything. Every dreams, every hopes, every opportunities. Am I really a bad child? Am I really that ungrateful? Do I really deserve all of this?

Nothing hurts anymore because apparently words could kill.

Jogja April 3rd 2021. Thoughts under heavy rain during the red lights on my way ‘home’.

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