The house that built me

 

I Was Raised.

Not loved,

Not cherished, 

Not held..just raised. 

Like a house built with hollow bricks, standing only because it has to, not because anyone cares if it does. 

I was raised to be quiet, to be small, to be the background noise in a home that only noticed me when something shattered.

Oh, but I was seen.

 Always seen.

 Seen when the glass cup slipped from my hands and crashed onto the floor. 

Seen when my mistakes made a sound loud enough to echo through their anger.

 Seen when I failed, when I faltered, when I didn't meet their expectations. 

But never when I wanted to be seen. Never when I needed to be.

I was heard too. 

Heard when I was too loud. 

When my cries were inconvenient.

 When I spoke words that were too big for them, when my voice trembled with something they didn’t have the patience to understand. 

Heard when they needed someone to blame. Always someone to blame. But never when I whispered, “I’m scared.” Never when I wanted to ask, Is somebody there for me?

People ask me why I flinch at love. 

Why I run the moment someone gets too close.

 Because love was never a home I could return to. 

Because love was something I had to beg for in a house that only taught me lessons in silence and loneliness. 

I have spent my whole life trying to be good enough for people who only knew how to point fingers. 

Who only saw me as the space between their words, the weight of their disappointment, the place where all their rage could rest.

And I was understanding.

 Oh, I was so understanding. 

I forgave them every time. 

I swallowed my pain so they wouldn't have to taste it.

 I held myself together with the same hands that were too afraid to hold anyone else.

If I had been loved instead of just raised, maybe I wouldn’t flinch at kindness. 

Maybe I wouldn’t mistake gentleness for something temporary, something that disappears the moment I exhale. 

If I had been loved, I wouldn’t be standing here, sifting through the wreckage of my own childhood, trying to piece together a version of myself that doesn’t shake at the sound of footsteps. 

But I was not loved.

 I was raised..like an obligation, like a duty, like something to be tolerated, not cherished. And now, every time love reaches for me, I don’t know whether to hold it or run.

But my inner child is done being understanding.

Done shrinking. 

Done waiting. 

Done breaking just so someone else can feel whole.

So to all the voices that only called me when they needed someone to blame..fuck you. 

Fuck you for making me feel like I was never enough. 

Fuck you for making me think love was something I had to earn.

 Fuck you for never telling me that I was already worthy.

I was raised. But I will raise myself now. And this time, I will be seen.