Ah, anger and resentment—a classic duo, right? Like peanut butter and jelly, except, you know, less tasty and more soul-crushing. Imagine them as two scruffy gremlins gnawing away at your insides. But unlike gremlins, you can’t drown them in water or starve them after midnight. Oh no, they feast 24/7, turning you into a delightful cocktail of cynicism with a twist of bitterness.
How do I know all this, you ask? Well, let’s just say I’m your friendly neighborhood cynic, fully certified in the field of “People are Terrible.” I’ve got the degree, the scars, and a lifetime subscription to emotional baggage. If resentment were an Olympic sport, I’d have a trophy shelf full of gold medals.
But here’s the thing—I don’t wear my cynicism like some badge of honor. It’s more like an invisible cloak, tucked neatly under layers of “I’m fine” and “No, really, everything’s okay.” Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You bottle it up, slap on a smile, and hope no one notices you’re one bad day away from screaming into a pillow until you lose your voice.
If I had to pinpoint where all this started, it’d probably be with my childhood—a real “Lifetime drama” rather than a “Hallmark movie.” Take my parents, for example. Their divorce wasn’t just a chapter in my life; it was the whole damn book. Picture me at 16, stuck in the middle of their legal battles, collecting judgments (in French, no less) and translating legal documents. I was too young to fully grasp what was happening but old enough to feel it tearing me apart.
And my mom? She was busy building her career, which left me stepping into the role of caregiver for my younger sister. I was still figuring out my own life, yet there I was, making sure she was okay, doing her homework, and keeping things afloat. Just when I started to think I could handle it, she was taken away—on my 18th birthday, no less. By 19, I was alone in a country that barely felt like home, with nothing but a gaping void where my family used to be.
Life didn’t slow down after that. People moved on, built their lives, found their distractions. Meanwhile, I stayed behind, carrying the emotional fallout. Over the years, I’ve become the “strong one,” the shoulder everyone leans on. And sure, being dependable has its moments, but when it’s my turn? When I need someone to lean on? The silence is deafening.
That silence gets heavy. And while I’m good at hiding it, sometimes the cracks show. When they do, I’m met with judgment. “You’re overreacting.” “You’re being negative.” It’s as if, after years of holding everyone else together, I’m not allowed to feel overwhelmed or bitter.
But let’s be honest—what’s my alternative? Self-medication has been my go-to for 20 years. Booze and weed have been my coping mechanisms, but even I know they’re not solutions. The real problem is that I don’t know how to let go of the role I’ve played for so long. How do you stop being the strong one when it’s all you’ve ever been?
And here’s the kicker: I grew up with a mother studying psychology, which means I’ve seen behind the curtain. Therapy? Been there, done that. I know the tricks, the strategies, the magic words that are supposed to make everything better. But knowing the mechanics doesn’t make the process easier. If anything, it makes it harder to trust.
So here I am, staring down 40, wondering how to untangle years of unresolved pain. I want to let go of the anger, the resentment, the feeling that I’m invisible in my own life. But where do I start? How do I balance being there for others with showing up for myself?
Maybe the answer isn’t as dramatic as a “Lifetime” finale. Maybe it’s about taking small steps—saying no when I need to, carving out moments just for me, and learning that being vulnerable doesn’t make me weak. Maybe it’s about realizing that asking for help doesn’t erase the strength I’ve shown all these years.
To my family and friends who might be reading this—yes, I know you’re worried. And no, I don’t have all the answers yet. But I’m working on it. For once, I’m trying to be the strong one for myself. Because after all these years, I think I owe myself that much.
So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some reflecting to do—and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let myself believe that life isn’t all resentment and trust issues. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.
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