It’s exhausting. Every time I try to talk about my life, I get the same response. People tell me to stop with the victim mentality and self-pity. They act like I’m just complaining for attention, when I’m not. I’m not asking for sympathy. I just want to be heard and understood. But instead, I get told to “get over it,” as if years of abuse, neglect, and bullying can just be forgotten because others are tired of hearing it.
Growing up, I was never given a chance. In the adoption center, I was just another case. The workers barely acknowledged me, treating me like an inconvenience. I was sent to a cold, moldy room without care, already feeling like I didn’t belong, and that moment taught me that no one cared.
In middle school, I tried to fit in, but that never worked. Every time I tried to approach a group, I was rejected. The worst part wasn’t just the rejection, but the way they made me feel like I wasn’t even human.
I went to the guidance counselor once, desperate for any kind of support, but instead, she didn’t care. She looked at me like I was wasting her time and told me I needed to “stop feeling sorry for myself” and “stop blaming everyone else.” She made it clear that my problems weren’t real—that I was just some whiny kid looking for an excuse. When I tried to explain, she told me to “get over it” and stop “complaining about everything.” She didn’t listen. She didn’t care. She just wanted me out of her office so she didn’t have to deal with my problems.
Gym class was hell. Every single time we had to pick teams, I was the last one standing there. Some classmate, who seemed to take pleasure in watching me squirm, would call out in front of everyone how much of a loser I was. The way the other kids laughed, how they made sure to make me the joke of the day—it was like I didn’t even matter. It didn’t matter that I tried, that I didn’t want to be last. What mattered was that I wasn’t good enough, and everyone was more than happy to let me know. The coach didn’t even step in; he just let the others make fun of me. He didn’t care, either.
There were also the comments about my appearance. I overheard people making fun of how I looked—things like how I look very short and have a huge nose. I don’t know why they couldn’t just leave me alone, but instead, they constantly pointed out everything they thought was wrong with me.
But the worst part is that no one ever seems to care about what I went through. When I try to talk about my struggles, all I get are people telling me to stop playing the victim. They act like I’m the problem, as if it’s my fault that I’ve been through so much. They don’t care about the years of abuse or the years of bullying. They just want me to shut up and “move on,” like it’s that simple.
I just want people to stop dismissing what I’ve been through. People think I’m just whining, but they don’t understand the weight of what I carry. They don’t understand that it’s not about seeking attention, but about wanting someone to listen for once, without judgment.
But in this world, it’s easier to tell someone to be quiet than to understand their pain. And so I’m left with this: silence. Because no one wants to hear it.
Growing up, I was never given a chance. In the adoption center, I was just another case. The workers barely acknowledged me, treating me like an inconvenience. I was sent to a cold, moldy room without care, already feeling like I didn’t belong, and that moment taught me that no one cared.
In middle school, I tried to fit in, but that never worked. Every time I tried to approach a group, I was rejected. The worst part wasn’t just the rejection, but the way they made me feel like I wasn’t even human.
I went to the guidance counselor once, desperate for any kind of support, but instead, she didn’t care. She looked at me like I was wasting her time and told me I needed to “stop feeling sorry for myself” and “stop blaming everyone else.” She made it clear that my problems weren’t real—that I was just some whiny kid looking for an excuse. When I tried to explain, she told me to “get over it” and stop “complaining about everything.” She didn’t listen. She didn’t care. She just wanted me out of her office so she didn’t have to deal with my problems.
Gym class was hell. Every single time we had to pick teams, I was the last one standing there. Some classmate, who seemed to take pleasure in watching me squirm, would call out in front of everyone how much of a loser I was. The way the other kids laughed, how they made sure to make me the joke of the day—it was like I didn’t even matter. It didn’t matter that I tried, that I didn’t want to be last. What mattered was that I wasn’t good enough, and everyone was more than happy to let me know. The coach didn’t even step in; he just let the others make fun of me. He didn’t care, either.
There were also the comments about my appearance. I overheard people making fun of how I looked—things like how I look very short and have a huge nose. I don’t know why they couldn’t just leave me alone, but instead, they constantly pointed out everything they thought was wrong with me.
But the worst part is that no one ever seems to care about what I went through. When I try to talk about my struggles, all I get are people telling me to stop playing the victim. They act like I’m the problem, as if it’s my fault that I’ve been through so much. They don’t care about the years of abuse or the years of bullying. They just want me to shut up and “move on,” like it’s that simple.
I just want people to stop dismissing what I’ve been through. People think I’m just whining, but they don’t understand the weight of what I carry. They don’t understand that it’s not about seeking attention, but about wanting someone to listen for once, without judgment.
But in this world, it’s easier to tell someone to be quiet than to understand their pain. And so I’m left with this: silence. Because no one wants to hear it.
