I grew up feeling like the kid who just didn’t fit the mould, the one who’d never quite hit the mark. My brothers and sisters? They were the stars: the brainiac, the goody-two-shoes, and the pride of the clan. And me? I was the benchmark for “what not to do”, the punchline in hushed whispers at holidays. Those get-togethers? Pure torture, like stepping into a spotlight where every glance screamed, “Why can’t you be more?” Dinners were the worst.
I’d shrink into my chair, fork poking at peas, while Mom and Dad gushed over my sister’s promotion or my brother’s straight A’s. My voice? Barely a peep before it’d get drowned out: “Honey, why not take a page from your sister’s book?” Ouch. Those jabs? They stung like salt in fresh cuts, chipping away at whatever spark I had left. Eventually, I just… quit reaching. Doors slammed shut on my little side hustle, job apps vanished into the void, and even coffee dates fizzled.
It felt rigged, like an unseen anchor yanking me under just as I’d bob up for air. And the kicker? My own folks chalked it up to some family jinx, snickering over coffee that I’d “never amount to a hill of beans.” Nothing crushes the soul like breathing the same air as your people but feeling invisible, like you’re yelling into a void of indifference. It warps you, makes you question if you’re even meant for this world. One rainy evening, I shattered. Continue Reading https://drbokko.com/?p=34151