Here I am, 45 years old, and it’s like I’m still that kid, standing in the kitchen, waiting for the yelling to start. Back then, it was my father’s voice, booming, tearing through me like a storm. Nothing I did was right—too slow, too loud, too much, never enough. His words were like nails, pinning me to a version of myself I hated. I swore I’d never let that happen again. I swore I’d build a life where I was safe, where I was seen. But look at me now. Look at the people I keep letting in.
First, it was my ex. His temper, his sharp tongue—it was like my father all over again, every criticism a ghost of those old fights. I left him, thinking I’d broken the cycle, thinking I’d finally outrun it. Then my roommate—her, with her endless complaints, her way of making me feel like I’m always falling short. It’s not just her tone; it’s the way it sinks into me, familiar, like a song I’ve heard a thousand times. And I wonder—am I doing this to myself? Am I seeking out these people, these echoes of my childhood, like I’m trying to recreate the pain? Am I a masochist?
Why do I keep finding these scenarios, these people who make me feel small? It’s like I’m drawn to them, like I’m casting them in some play I didn’t even know I was writing. The director, the star, the victim—all me. I tell myself I want peace, love, something soft to rest in, but maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m chasing the chaos because it’s all I know. Maybe I’m afraid of what happens when it’s quiet, when there’s no one to fight, no one to prove myself to. What if I don’t know how to exist without the hurt?
I keep thinking about my father. I never made peace with him, not really. He’s gone now, but his shadow’s still here, in every harsh word, every raised voice. Am I looking for him in these people? Trying to fix what I couldn’t back then? Or is it simpler—am I just wired this way, doomed to repeat the same story, over and over, until I figure out how to write a new ending? I don’t know. All I know is I’m tired of this script, but I’m the one who keeps picking it up.
Yes when my mom was yelling but this story is not about my mother. Or is it…