Growing Up In loneliness
“Well you do enough talk My little hawk, why do you cry? Tell me what did you learn from the Tillamook burn? Or the Fourth of July? We’re all gonna die.”
I was born in a place surrounded by a lot of people. I lived with my grandma and my mom in two different cities, and both were really warm and friendly environments. The first time I knew about grief was when my grandpa died. He died when I was 5, and I was too young to understand that he would never back to the house and hug me. I was too young to grieve, I was too young to know that I would need him one day when I grew up. My grandma lived with my mom after my grandpa died, and I started to live only in one place with them. The first time I felt lonely was after my little sister was born. No one looked at me again, no one hugged me again, and no one noticed my good things when I growing up. My growth isn't an important thing anymore compared with my little sister's growth. I started to not talk too much with my mom after her first hit to my body — that followed another physical abuse in the future — and how she never really listened to my story and talked to me every time she needed a supporter for her ideas — she has gaslighted me, but I don't know there's a term for it.
I never talked about my personal life to my close friends, because I never had close friends. I was transferred to a different school three times when I was in elementary school. I went to boarding school for JHS, and I was a fun friend, but only enough for fun. I never felt like they were comfortable around me, because I was not a tidy person — it was because I was depressed, but I didn't realize yet — not really a clean girl among them. I feel like they were disgusted with me, and it made me make a boundary between me and the other. I never talked about my personal life, because I never thought my suffering or my stories were important.
My peak moment of loneliness is in 2020. When I needed to back to my house after living in a dorm for 2 years. I was back home for a long time because of COVID-19. I got my own room, and I had my own phone. My room is on the first floor, and all of my family live on the second floor. I live alone on the first floor and feel isolated. Still fresh on my mind, when I can't sleep or before I sleep I will hear my mom, grandma, and dad laughing and playing with my little sister. Months after months started to get worse. No one asked me to talk. I started to keep a distance from my friends because I didn't enjoy talking with someone on the phone. I feel alone. I never felt this loneliness.
Everynight I'll look at the ceiling and realize, I've been not talking for days. Realize all of my friends are not real, they're on the screen and when I turn off the phone they're gone. Everynight, I started to wonder when all of these things would end. Realized I didn't have anyone or anything on my side. I only have this body and a fragile soul inside, and I was 14. I was 14 when I started to cry over my grandpa died. Why he should die first? Why not me? Why a disgusting person and hopeless person like me should continue living and a kind guy like him should die first? I was 14 and cried wondering if my grandpa was still alive and if he would hug me like he always does and tell me everything will be alright. He will tell my mom to stop abusing me. I was 14 and wished I could get buried on my grandpa's side.
I was 14 when I discovered a kind of boyfriend ASMR where the actors will pretend he sleeps beside you, hug you, and comfort you. I listened to those ASMRs every night while I hugged my pillow — hope I can feel the warmness and feel the existence of someone beside me. I was 14 when I started to have parasocial relationships, the worst. When he constantly posts content at the same time every day, makes me feel like I have a routine to talk with someone about my day. I feel like I finally talk with someone before I sleep. I was 14 when I made my first suicide attempt. I was 14 and drank a bunch of pills wish I wouldn't wake up tomorrow morning and listen to my abusive mom anymore. I was 14, cried a whole night because my mom took my phone and I ended up completely alone in my bedroom. I was 14 when I begged god to make everything easier for me because I was only 14.
I was 15 when I started to lose hope. I was 15 when I went to a therapist by myself and I couldn't tell her anything, all I did was cry because I couldn't tell her what my abusive mom had done to me. I was 15 when I went to a new school and met a lot of new people. I was 15 when I learned that I would never be the same anymore.
I grew up, and no one by my side. I taught myself what should I do and what shouldn't. I taught myself to learn a lot of things and to see the world as a big place with a big spectrum. I taught myself to forgive others for everything they have done to me — it's hard, and I still can't do it sometimes. I grew up and started to hug myself every time I felt like I needed someone.
I was 16 when I lost everything. I was 16 when I knew I could not even know myself anymore. I was 16 when my dad’s gambling addiction in its peak, my mom's depression was getting worse — but she was skeptical about mental illness and made jokes about that — and my grandma started to think I didn't care about her anymore. I was 16 when everyone said I didn't have a feature because my dad was a gambling addict. I was 16 when someone told me to don't have a big dream. I was 16 and got tons of sexualizing everywhere and pretended it was okay and it wasn't affecting me. I was 16 when I heard someone say I’m a slut. I was 16 and I don't know who was inside my body anymore. I was 16 and I tried to hold myself to not make a 30 cm gaping wound on my hand. I was 16 when I had to bite my lips till it was bleeding just to hold the urge to punch myself or cut myself every time everything got worse. I was 16 when everyone started to make their preparation for university but I still made another plan B because there's no university my dad can afford. I was 16 and I started to be scared to have dreams. I was 16 and everyone looked at me in pity. I was 16 and almost killed myself with a little knife that was a gift for my birthday. I was 16 when I called the suicidal hotline to help me stay sane when in the next room my family was laughing together. I was 16 when I felt like I would be living in poverty in the future. I was 16 and I still dreamed of getting buried beside my grandpa.
I am 17, and I started to let everything go. I was 17 and started to make peace with death. I am 17 and I know deep inside I'm so lonely. Deep inside there's a big gap hole that gets bigger every time someone leaves their marks — trauma — on me. I am 17 and I don't know when this loneliness will end. I am 17 and I still tried to figure out a lot of things. I am 17 and still wish I could move out, and find a place where I can feel loved and I can loving others. I am 17 and…
