Date: February 3
I used to think people were kind.
You know—hold the door open, ask how you're doing, smile like they mean it. I thought adults had some secret switch in their heads that made them decent. Like, the moment you turn 30, you grow kindness like a beard.
But I was a kid then. Kids believe dumb things.
Now I'm 19. And I know better.
People are kind when they're winning. When they're seen. When it's easy.
But when they think no one's watching? When you're too tired to fight back?
They sharpen their words.
They spit while smiling.
They laugh while stealing.
My mom told me this morning I look like a failure.
"Look at you. Silent like a fool. You'll get looted if you don't learn to talk. Even beggars are better."
I didn't respond.
Not because I agree.
Because I'm exhausted.
Every time I open my mouth, she takes it as an invitation to scream.
And her scream isn't just noise. It's poison. It wraps around your spine, and you start believing her. Like maybe you are the problem.
Dad doesn't say much.
He used to. Before his own brother stole our land.
That betrayal took more than property. It took pieces of him.
I saw him shrink—one court hearing at a time.
He looks like a man living beside his own life, not in it.
The land's still in dispute.
They got a stay order. Even after the court said it's ours.
Because words mean nothing when people like Shakuntla scream louder than truth.
Shakuntla.
That woman's voice should be registered as a weapon.
She stood outside our gate yelling that my father "bought" my mother.
Laughed about it. Like it was some community joke.
You don't forget things like that.
Not even when you pretend to.
I'm not looking for sympathy.
I just want someone to tell me I'm not crazy. That this isn't how families are supposed to be.
Because if this is normal,
I want nothing to do with normal.
End of entry.
– M.