Every time someone hates me for just wanting to feel like I matter, it brings me right back to being the hated kid I always was. The people who mock me or tell me I’m wrong for wanting the smallest bit of compassion—they feel like the same vicious faces I saw growing up. Back then, it was kids laughing at me for how I looked, for how I didn’t fit in. It was the adults who didn’t care, who treated me like I was a burden just for existing. Those moments shaped me, broke me, and I still carry them every day. So when people now tell me I’m worthless, it doesn’t just hurt—it cuts deeper, as if I’m still that child, small and powerless, begging for someone to be kind.
