Unacknowledged in through the looking glass.

I know only silent suffering.

The father who left me. The proxy who chased after me, fists raised in rage as I cowered in the corner. The mother who belittled, who mocked, who was, fundamentally, just indifferent to me. The dead little bean inside my womb.

I learned early on that even if you cry out, nobody will really help. But I guess I forgot.

It starts to make me feel like they’re not real losses, not things I should actually allow myself to grieve.

How hard is it to ask: “How are you doing?” What is so wrong with me that I’m undeserving of even that?