I had an awesome childhood, full of joy, imagination, and curiosity. But beneath the laughter and everyday play, I was living a double life, maybe even more than two. One part of me was a child like any other, but the other part… the other part was quietly mapping the unknown.
I was always trying to understand what lay beneath people’s words, their silence, their cruelty. I watched, I listened, and I felt things that others seemed to miss or avoid. I wasn’t just growing up, I was decoding. While others saw the surface, I was searching for the roots, the hidden motivations, the real reason behind people’s actions.
Why do people hurt others without reason? What do they hide beneath their smiles? What makes someone betray innocence or twist kindness?
Even as a child, I sensed there was more to reality than what was handed to me. And so, my childhood wasn’t just about growing up; it was a quiet, ongoing investigation into the human heart.
There was a rumor in the neighborhood that my father was a drug pusher. No one ever said it to me directly, but I felt it in the way people acted, through their behaviors and unspoken words, the glances, the unspoken tension. I never confronted it. I never asked. I was too young to understand, too sheltered and naive to question it. So, I believed them.
Out of fear, I started lying to people from my school.. I lied about my life, about where I lived. I wouldn’t tell anyone my real address because I was terrified that if someone found out, my father might get arrested. I was just trying to protect my family in the only way I knew how.
Looking back now as an adult, I still don’t understand why no one ever asked me why I was lying. Why didn’t anyone notice something was wrong? Why didn’t anyone sit me down and try to understand?
Instead, I became a target. People made fun of me. I was bullied and intimidated, and I carried this invisible weight I couldn’t even explain. It’s hard to put that kind of fear and confusion into words.
Some people accused me of being autistic, insane, or simply “out of touch.” These weren’t just casual remarks; they were heavy, stigmatizing labels, spoken with judgment rather than care. The weight of those accusations was devastating, and they were not easy to confront. I was treated as though there was something inherently wrong with me, as if the way I existed was a problem that needed fixing or silencing.
I was just a girl trying to survive in silence while others decided who I was.
Later in life, another rumor followed me, that I was doing porn in college. It spread because people assumed my family couldn’t afford to send me to school, so they jumped to the worst conclusion. And again, no one asked me. No one defended me. No one even talked to me about it.
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