I was the "problem child" before I even knew what the word meant. To the world, I was a collection of contradictions: too quiet, too awkward, too strange, too uncouth. At times I was too loud; at others, too sensitive and too alone.
But in those tender years, I felt only wild and unencumbered—the kind of free you usually only find in novels or movies. I remember running barefoot through the grass under a relentless summer sun, laughing at myself and drinking in the easy breeze of childhood. I was an explorer of a backyard woods that no longer feels quite so big. My life was a series of adventures, both in the vast theatre of my mind and the world I saw around me.
I was endlessly curious, watching life unfold in slow motion. I followed bugs as they navigated the jungle of a grass blade; I caught cicadas and curated elaborate sand-zoos in my sandbox. When a creature rejected my affection with a bite or a swipe, I would weep—not just from the sting, but because I felt their life vibrating in my own. I felt a heavy, beautiful responsibility for every living thing, the kind of weight only a child, ignorant of the world's true definitions, could offer a poor soul.
When I saw people in pain, I felt it radiating in my own heart. I used to think, 'It should have been me, so they could still smile.' My little heart was overflowing with an empathy that was both pure and boundless. It extended even to the inanimate: I would apologize to the pebbles kicked beneath my shoe, hug the trees as they shed their leaves for fear they were hurting, and whisper sorries to the flowers trampled by my feet.
I would play tenderly with dolls, telling them how beautiful they were as I gently dressed them. I drew clumsy pictures of the world—blends of imagination and reality woven seamlessly together from a child's perspective. It was an innocence that made the world feel new and inspiring.
Of course, it wasn't simply that I always understood life. Just as children do, I also hurt things without fully understanding that I was snuffing out a life. Many bugs perished to my childlike wonder. By playing too rough or secretly hiding them so I could keep them, I watched the poor things wilt away under my care; for those, I mourned heavily, weeping late into the night. Even broken toys pulled at my heartstrings; I held honorary burials for them, mimicking rituals I didn't yet truly understand.
I remember a baby bird that had fallen from its nest during a storm. I couldn't bear to see it die alone in the cold, so I took it in. My thinking was simple: it had no home, so I would share mine. It had no food, so I would share my own. I cared for it night and day, hiding it from the adults. I fed it seeds, for I couldn't bear the thought of crushing a worm, and I brought it blankets to keep it warm.
But because I was only a child, the bird died a few days later. I brought its lifeless body to my parents, hoping they could somehow overturn fate, but they only looked on in disappointment. "You shouldn't have touched it," they said. "Its mother would have found it. It could have lived."
The realization that I was the very soul responsible for taking its life filled me with a guilt I had never known. I began to keep my distance from living things. I was terrified that my interference would only result in pain. I stopped playing with my toys and only admired them from afar; I stopped catching bugs and watched from a distance. I even stopped hugging the trees, fearing that it was my touch inflicting the pain that made them shed. That tender-hearted child—that wild, carefree child—was slowly becoming rough and brittle.
This newfound fear followed me out of the woods and into the living room. I would look at my cousins—a swarm of children roughly my age, some slightly older, some younger—and I no longer saw playmates. I saw chaos.
By the time I was five or six, the shift was complete. I began to prefer the solitude of my own mind, playing make-believe in a world where I could control the stakes and ensure nothing—and no one—got hurt. I cannot attest to exactly why it happened so suddenly, only that I looked around one day and the world seemed vastly more complicated than it had been. The adults seemed more tense, their brows permanently furrowed; the children seemed more cruel than my heart could take.
Our games, once gentle, had curdled. Tag was no longer a light tap; it had turned into forceful shoves and the sound of children crying. When the tears fell, the older ones didn't offer comfort; they offered mockery. I found myself retreating to the edges of the yard, longing for the soft, imaginative play that used to sustain us.
When I sought an explanation, I was met with a shrug. "Kids play rough and sometimes get hurt," the adults would say, dismissing the bruise on my arm or the sting in my spirit. "It's just kids being kids."
I heard the words, but I couldn't accept the logic. If they had changed and I had not, then I was the one who was broken. I still wore my heart on my sleeve, a garment too thin for the world they were building. So, I did the only thing that felt safe: I secluded myself. I became a quiet shadow. And because I didn't demand the attention the others fought for, I discovered a cold reality—my needs were the easiest to put on hold
I watched the others swallow up the air in the room, devouring the attention and love that never seemed to reach my corner. It led me to one desperate conclusion: I had to act out or disappear entirely.
But the thought of being "bad" made my stomach churn with a primal fear. I was terrified of disappointing the very people who looked right through me. So, I chose the quiet death of the "Good Girl." I watched my siblings and cousins feast on affection while I survived on crumbs. The adults would offer that devastatingly kind smile and say, "They just have more needs than you, sweetie. You're our good girl; we don't have to worry about you." A light pat on the head, a dismissal, and I was gone—erased by my own excellence.
I began to pride myself on my own starvation. I met my own needs with a cold, lonely efficiency. At my sisters' parties, the air was thick with the scent of high-priced demands; at my brothers', the rooms overflowed with friends and pristine, boxed treasures. My own birthdays were hollow echoes—a small gathering for free cake, cards with a signature but no soul, and hand-me-down toys that had long ago lost their luster to someone else's joy. When my parents offered treats with pity in their eyes, I turned them down with a robotic "I don't need it." I became a master of lack, hiding my body in oversized clothes and my spirit behind a mask of indifference, all to ensure I wasn't an inconvenience to a family that already seemed too full for me.
School was supposed to be my escape, but I carried the void with me. I sought out strangers—people who didn't know the invisible girl—and I invented a goddess to take her place. I told tales of vast, emerald woods and a swimming pool where you could dive deep and stroke the shells of ancient turtles. I drank in their "oohs" and "aahs" like a person dying of thirst. For a moment, I wasn't a hand-me-down child; I was glorious.
But lies are heavy, and I was young. The web began to snap.
The breaking point was my birthday at the skating rink. My parents had actually tried; they rented the whole floor. I wanted to give out those invitations—I felt the paper burning in my bag—but the fear was a physical weight. If they came, they would see the truth. They would see my small, quiet life and realize I was a fraud. Those invitations stayed in my bag, as lonely as I was, until I shoved them into a trash can outside the school, burying the evidence of my existence.
I spent my birthday skating in circles on a vast, empty floor, the music echoing against the walls like a mocking laugh. My mother's face was a map of heartbreak and disappointment, which only made the guilt settle in my marrow like lead. She made frantic, shamed phone calls to anyone with a child, and a few strangers eventually arrived—disinterested kids dragged along to sing "Happy Birthday" to a girl who felt like a hollowed-out tree.
When the truth finally leaked out, the rejection was a physical blow. My friends turned into hunters, treating me like a disease. The sadness I had cultivated for years finally curdled into a jagged, defensive rage. How dare you? I thought. How dare you judge me for lying when you have no idea what it's like to be nothing?
When they surrounded me, mocking my stories, the world would tilt. My chest would tighten until I was breathing through a straw. My ears rang with the sound of a thousand cicadas, and my hands vibrated with a terrifying, kinetic energy. Survival meant violence. I hunted them down, pushing, hitting, and screaming—not at them, but at the world that had ignored me.
But the moment the rage drained, the shame rushed in to fill the gaps. The "little voice" would return, cold and relentless: 'See? All you do is hurt things. You're a monster, just like you were with the bird. You deserve to be alone.' I would replay my failures on a loop, a private cinema of regret, retreating further into the shadows of my own mind until I was held back in fifth grade—a dunce, a liar, and a ghost.
Being held back was a rebirth that tasted like ash. It gave me a clean slate—a sea of new faces who didn't know my lies—but it branded me with a new identity: the Dunce. I was the girl too stupid to keep up, a slow-moving shadow trailing behind my peers. My self-confidence didn't just break; it vanished.
I sat in those hard plastic chairs, drowning in concepts that felt like pointless noise. I realized, with a sickening clarity, that the adults around me didn't actually use this "knowledge." When my parents struggled to help with my homework, the charade collapsed. I began asking "Why?" with a desperation that bordered on a plea. But my teachers had no answers, only rehearsed lines and rising tempers. When I pushed them for the truth, they didn't offer a lifeline; they lashed out, their frustration a shield for their own ignorance.
So, I began "gaining consciousness." I looked around the room and saw a flock of obedient sheep. The other children didn't ask "Why?"—they just existed, effortlessly navigating the social tides and academic chores as if they'd been born with the map I was missing. I observed them like a scientist studying a different species. How did they not see the pointlessness of it all? Why was life so easy for them? I wondered if I was still broken from the bird, or if my family had simply failed to give me the tools to survive.
The "Why" I couldn't find in my books turned into a "Who." I needed someone to blame for my isolation, and that blame curdled into a dark, vibrating anger. I shut myself in, becoming a fortress of irritability.
And that was when the others found me.
They weren't the "good" kids; they were the ones with jagged edges and "award-winning" smiles designed to mask their own hollow places. They saw someone mentally brittle—someone starving to be noticed—and they reached out. To my naive eyes, they weren't "bad kids"; they were fellow refugees. They were desperate souls in search of meaning, survivors of their own domestic wars who just wanted a tribe to call their own.
Their outstretched hands felt like a miracle. For the first time, I didn't have to lie. I didn't have to perform. I just had to be. In my desperation to be seen, I didn't care if the eyes watching me were dangerous. I thought I had finally found my tribe. I thought I was finally home
At first, navigating this new tribe was like walking through a minefield. These were rough kids whose internal compasses had already shifted toward fight-or-flight. They regaled the group with tales of bad behavior like they were war stories, and when they saw I was unwilling to share my own, they began to weave a mythology out of the whispers of my past.
"I heard she beat up five guys for looking at her funny!""I heard she punched a teacher!""They say she sent a kid to the hospital."
I neither confirmed nor denied the rumors, and so my infamy grew far beyond my actual capacity. I became their designated "fighter"—the one who would put anyone who dared harm us into the dirt. They showered me with accolades I hadn't earned, rebranding my raw aggression as "protection."
In all honesty, I felt liberated. The idea that my jagged anger and heavy guilt could be forged into a fine sword to defend those I cared about was intoxicating. I leaned into the role, acting as a "Mother Goose" for the unseen. I was the captain of a vessel with a loyal, broken crew. But as we aged, the stakes grew sharp and dangerous.
Schoolyard scuffles escalated into street fights with real consequences. Bruises and callouses were hidden behind the shadows of oversized hoodies and hollow excuses—a fall here, a bump there, anything to keep the truth at bay. What began as petty theft turned into a forceful "tax" on other kids. Hangouts dissolved into late-night parties where the air was thick with the scent of real cigarettes and the tension of inevitable injury.
I began to make excuses for them, and for myself. We are just misunderstood, I'd tell the "little voice" in my head. They aren't bad people. But the cracks were widening. Infighting began to erupt within our tribe, a civil war of accusations and petty faults. I was terrified of losing my family again.
In a fit of desperation, I stepped into the center of the storm. I became the medium, the diplomat, the tie-breaker. I solved every problem that came my way—sometimes with a soft word, sometimes with a show of force. The role began to drain me, hollowing me out until there was nothing left but the function I served. I had taken on a new form: the Diplomat. But even a diplomat eventually runs out of peace to give
By the time I realized I couldn't sustain the weight, my tribe was already dismantling. Some moved away to escape the gravity of our reputation; others traded the street for the athletics field. Those who remained were a toxic brew of secrets and ill will.
Ironically, it was my own honesty that accelerated the ruin. I was a "Fixer" by nature—an instinct that felt less like a choice and more like a sacred duty. When people confided in me, I took it upon myself to solve their lives, whether they asked me to or not. I hadn't yet learned the cruelest rule of friendship: that sometimes, people cherish their problems more than they value the person trying to take them away.
I watched them fall out over petty betrayals—boys, cigarettes, rumors—and I stepped into the line of fire to resolve it all. This was the judgment call that finished us. As the tribe crumbled, the "little voice" returned, louder than ever. 'Not surprising you'd lose this family, too. Did you learn nothing from the bird? You were never meant to have anyone beside you.'
My anxiety broke the mask I had worn for years. If I wasn't the Protector, or the Diplomat, or the eye of the storm... then who was I? Depression set in like a cold wave of truth. I began turning away from the few friends I had left, searching for a light I couldn't name. In my desperation, I fell back on old habits, but with a new, sharper edge: I began to lie diplomatically.
I lied to save what was left. I used my hyper-sensitive foresight to predict discomfort and "fix" it before it even happened, crossing boundaries I didn't even know existed. I became a vault for every secret told to me while playing the fool to others. Yet, even this failed. Friends turned their backs in anger, furious that I had tried to sort out their lives instead of just listening.
I was left utterly confused. If you didn't want me to fix it, why did you tell me? If you didn't want my help, why did you rely on me so much? I couldn't figure out what they wanted. Was I supposed to be the brave hero or the sacrificial lamb? Whenever I tried to share my own soul, I was met with lackluster interest—they were too busy with the very problems they had brought to my doorstep. I was told to "stop butting in" by the same people who had begged for my intervention.
My loneliness deepened into a crater. If I couldn't understand the basic mechanics of a relationship, how was I supposed to be close to anyone? I began to believe the universe was sending me a final, cold message: I was fated to be misunderstood, and I was meant to be alone.
I was unwilling to accept the fate the universe had handed me. I convinced myself that I didn't lack a soul—I only lacked information.
I returned to my old habits of observation, turning my gaze toward religion and the stars. I was convinced there was a secret code everyone else could see but me, a hidden frequency I was failing to tune into. I poured my heart into researching anything I could get my hands on, but the more I read of religion, the more terrified I became. These books spoke of faith, of surrendering to a higher power when overwhelmed, and of a "goodness" that felt alien to me.
I looked at my history—the lies, the violence, the "Mother Goose" of a street tribe—and a relentless realization settled in. I was a bad person. I felt I was finally looking the truth in the face. I was the master of my own suffering, and the isolation I felt was a just punishment for my sins. I tried to fight the thought: I don't wish ill will on anyone. I only wanted to protect what I had. But the guilt was a heavy, stagnant pool I couldn't climb out of.
Desperate to prove the religious texts wrong, I turned to psychology and science, hoping for an answer that wasn't so bleak. I looked for a "Why" that didn't involve eternal damnation.
Through psychology, I discovered the "Unspoken Rules" of social interaction. I realized that these were the very things I had never been taught. There were boundaries for secrets, protocols for friendships, and specific, delicate ways to offer help without overstepping. I seized this knowledge like a weapon, using it to upgrade my hyper-sensitive foresight. I told myself I would become the perfect Diplomat—a girl who finally understood the mechanics of human connection.
But I was still just a lonely girl trying to hold the world together with scotch tape and logic. I soon discovered the cruelest truth of all: knowing the rules and executing them were two very different things. My head knew the map, but my heart was still lost in the woods.