Dreams Chapter 1

 

I dreamt of someone last night. In the dream, I went to their house. I wasn’t the version of me who begged or pleaded before. I showed how much I’ve grown — I didn’t ask to be their friend again. I stood my ground. I said how painful it was to know I wasn’t wanted, and I told them I couldn’t allow that kind of disrespect into my life anymore. Then I left.

But as I walked away, a voice — a sister, a witness — called out: “Why would you leave again?” And guilt tugged at me. That old familiar pull, making me circle back. Again and again, like I couldn’t quite shut the door, no matter how much I wanted to.

Then I saw it clearly: how they were only ever occupied with themselves. How little space I had in their world. Rage surged through me. I tore through the dream-house, destroying what belonged to them. It wasn’t about things — it was about the anger I’ve held in too long, the fire I never let myself release.

Maybe it wasn’t their house at all. Maybe it was the house I’ve built for them inside my head, the one I keep circling. Maybe the destruction was my way of saying: enough.

And yet, the guilt lingers. The heaviness. The ache of leaving, even when I know I must.

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Perfection doesn’t Exist

I’m not trying to sound wise and mature just because I turned thirty this year. Y’all have to give me that I can be quite witty at times. But this entry is not for the weak. It’s about me letting go of a friendship I had always sought for as a young girl. The lengths I would go to mould the first friendship I had as a child. Gripping onto it like my life was made from it. This is not a Disney movie. It’s my life, and I’m going to share how I value every friendship even the one that didn’t quite serve me well. They’re all different. 

The one friendship I tried to keep which was very uncomfortable for me to keep at the time was one with a crush. There is a very creepy energy within me that doesn't know how to differentiate between a hopeless and a hopeful wish/want. From butterflies in my tummy to the burning desire in my heart to create magic with all the things we were told we couldn't do. To break free from the clutches of know-it-all parents to the expectations of society. I learnt so much, in fact I wanted to fight for this belief system that lacks everywhere now. What is so wrong in believing we could even though (maybe) we can't.

Why is there so much judgement in skill and no attention to the art of expressing? As a baby, if you tasted milk your whole life, how would you know you could love yoghurt for instance. I'm not upset but this friendship had frequent storms that always linked with this same issue at heart. They may happen in different situations, but they all resonate on the same frequency. Not being good enough or perfect in the eyes of the beholder.

Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. But what if your beholder is blind? And those were the battles and storms this friendship went through and why it was felt so close to me like it was home. Imagine seeking validation from someone who was never capable of truly seeing you to begin with. Whether it’s society, lover, friend, parent or even, yourself. The constant misunderstanding, ghostings and rejections that fuels the fights we would have with ourselves. The way it would fuel anger rage and resentment that sometimes changes us in the process. When we stop seeing one another for who we are, we start losing sight of who we once were. 

I am my own child imperfectly me, flawed to meet my people who would go onto these grounds we call Earth. I’m learning to write better to let my emotions come out better than my sentence structure, vocabulary or grammar. I want to heal the parts of me that I truly miss. I want my whole self to be back again. So this is 30, me searching for 5 year old me. That kind little girl who doesn’t judge and only do what is right by her. 

Whoever is reading this, I hope you feel a little cringe that this sounds like it’s from a book– ITS NOT. But it could be heavily influenced by them– Who knows? I spent days trying to find people who were sharing the same predicaments as me through social media, movies and songs. It was very hard. I can’t tell you how many times I have been hurt and disappointed, not because of my expectations of them but because I saw it coming and still let hope take charge of my system. And that’s okay, it’s not stupid, it’s time-consuming but I guess I’m finally eating the same old advice I tell people:  “Let me learn it the hard way.” If easy’s never going to make it for it then hard it is.  

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Heart

I don’t remember their voice anymore. It’s strange how something that once felt so close can fade like that. But their hands .. I still remember them clearly.

Quiet, fast, always moving with purpose. Those hands could build things, fix things, hold the world together for people who couldn’t do it themselves. The veins in their arms told stories of long days, too many nights, and dreams that needed to be real. They gave and gave. And I saw it. Even when no one else did.

Their eyes used to search, not for validation, but for pain in others. And when they found it, they didn’t panic. They met it with music. With softness. Their silence could calm what even words couldn’t reach. I remember feeling seen just by how they looked at the world.

And their smile… so small. Just the corners of their lips lifting, barely there. But it meant everything. That quiet curve told me they were happy to be with the people they loved, even if they never said it out loud.

They noticed everything. The way I flinched when things got loud. The way I loved gently.The way I shrank when I didn’t feel enough. They knew.

And now… they’re not okay. They’re down. Hurting. Probably afraid, probably alone. Their body and mind are tired from whatever yesterday took from them. And they’re worried about what comes next. And I can’t do anything. I can’t hold their hand. I can’t show up. I can’t say, “You’re not alone.” I can’t remind them that they matter. I’m not allowed to. I’m supposed to let go. I know this is where our story ends. But it doesn’t stop the pain. It doesn’t stop me from caring so much it physically hurts. It doesn’t stop me from crying over someone who won’t ever know. It doesn’t stop me from loving someone who doesn’t reach back.

And even now… I still can’t hate them. There’s nothing about them I hate. Not even now. Because my love wasn’t shallow. It wasn’t for show. It was real. Deep. Unspoken. And it’s still here; sitting in my chest, screaming quietly.

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Would I Disappear If I Could?

I came across this question:

It lingered.

Not because I’m running from life—but because some parts of my story feel too heavy to keep carrying. There are choices I’ve made, people I’ve loved, and silences I’ve lived with that never quite left me.

Once, I let go of someone I never imagined losing. It wasn’t out of malice - it was the only way I knew how to cope at the time. I was overwhelmed, anxious, and too tangled up inside to explain what was breaking. So I stepped back. Quietly. Fully.

When I tried to return, things had changed. The door I once felt safe behind had closed.

At first, I didn’t understand why.

I thought maybe the past could be softened, that time might have left a little space for me.

But it hadn’t.

And it took me a long time [and a lot of pain] to finally understand that some endings don’t come with invitations to begin again.

But what stayed with me was this: I’ve always been willing to take chances on things that don’t promise success. To invest in people, in ideas, in growth - just for the hope that something meaningful could come from it. I’ve never really had someone match that energy. And maybe that’s the ache I still carry - not being left, but never being truly met.

So would I disappear, start over, and let the past dissolve?

Some days, the idea sounds peaceful.

But I think if I had the chance, I’d still want to bring one thing with me:

The part of me that keeps trying - quietly, stubbornly - despite it all.

Because even if no one remembers me, I’ll remember the effort.

And maybe, one day, that will be enough.

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I Went to Mayhem and It Messed Me Up a Bit

I went to the Lady Gaga concert alone. First concert I’ve ever gone to. I thought it was going to be exciting, maybe even healing. I was wrong.

Somewhere halfway through the night, I just broke down. I started thinking about them. About how they used to help me in crowds, how I never had to figure it out alone before. And suddenly, I felt really small and really lost in a sea of people. Not because the crowd was scary, but because I didn’t have that person anymore. It hit me harder than I expected.

I cried when I got home. And not because my feet hurt—though they did. But because I realized I still miss them. I thought I was past it. Guess I’m not.

Today I keep seeing videos of the concert on TikTok and it stings. Not in a dramatic way. Just a dull ache. The kind that reminds you that even if you’re doing fine most days, you’re still carrying something.

But I don’t want to hate the memory. I still love Lady Gaga. I don’t want the whole night to be about sadness. It wasn’t all bad. I just felt a lot. More than I expected.

I guess that’s it. There’s no neat ending. I went. I cried. I’m still sad. But I survived it. That’s all.

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Family Power Plays

Today was another emotionally taxing days when I found myself caught in a whirlwind of frustration, anger, and hurt. It wasn’t the first time a family conversation turned into a battleground, but this one cut deeper because of how personal it became.

If you read my previous post about boundaries, you’ll know that I’ve been navigating the tricky terrain of trying to respect others’ boundaries while also asserting my own. But today, it wasn’t just about boundaries; it was about control, disrespect, and the exhausting double standard of accountability within families.

It started innocuously enough, with my father offering what he framed as “advice” on how my siblings and I should take on additional part-time jobs to increase our income. It’s not the first time he’s brought this up, and honestly, it’s getting old. We’ve repeatedly explained how we’re already stretched thin with our current jobs, but that didn’t seem to matter. Today, however, he went a step further. He didn’t just criticize our choices; he launched personal attacks, bringing up my past struggles, my current lifestyle, and even dragging my ex-friends into the conversation.

Let me be clear: The friends have nothing to do with this. Mentioning them wasn’t just irrelevant—it was a deliberate jab meant to hurt me. My father knows how sensitive that topic is for me, and he weaponized it to inflict pain. That’s not advice; that’s manipulation.

Here are some key issues I faced during this conversation:

Disrespecting My Life Choices
My father seems to think he has the right to dictate how I live my life simply because he’s my parent. He called me a “loser,” insulted my career choices, and demeaned the way I choose to spend my time. I’m not obligated to live my life by his definition of success. Success is personal, and for me, it includes rest, balance, and mental well-being—things he refuses to acknowledge as valid.

Emotional Manipulation & Shifting of Blame 

Bringing up past Friendships felt like a deliberate ambush, a calculated attempt to exploit my vulnerabilities. At that moment, I felt bamboozled into believing I was the problem—that my emotions and past choices were the sole reason for the tension. But the reality was clear: this wasn’t about finding a solution or fostering understanding. It was a low blow meant to shift the blame onto me, to deflect from the real issue at hand, and to strip me of any control in the conversation.

Dismissing My Boundaries
I tried to set a clear boundary during the conversation. I stated that I no longer wished to discuss my financial plans with my family. This boundary wasn’t respected. Instead, I was told I had no right to set boundaries because I was his child. This refusal to respect my autonomy as an adult is laughable to me because just why do I have to go through this at this age.

Blaming Me for Everything
The conversation quickly spiralled into a blame game where I was painted as the ungrateful, disrespectful child. My father refused to acknowledge his own behaviour or the fact that his “advice” often comes across as bossy, intrusive, and dismissive of our current struggles. Instead, he doubled down, accusing me of being lazy, toxic, and a failure.

Setting boundaries with my father has always been difficult. Today, I stood my ground and clarified that I wasn’t willing to engage in a discussion that felt more like an attack than a dialogue. But instead of respecting that, he escalated, accusing me of being a “weakling” who was “wasting her life.”

The hardest part? The complete lack of accountability. My father insists he has the right to lecture me because he’s my parent. But being a parent doesn’t give you the right to tear your child down, to dismiss their feelings, or to demand absolute control over their life. Relationships—even parent-child relationships—require mutual respect. Without it, they become toxic.

Here’s what I’ve learned from this:

Boundaries Are Non-Negotiable 

I have every right to set boundaries, even with my parents. Just because they don’t like it doesn’t mean I’m wrong for doing it. Boundaries are about protecting my mental health and creating a safe space for myself, and I won’t apologize for that.

Respect Is a Two-Way Street

If my father wants respect, he needs to give it. Respect isn’t earned by age or authority; it’s earned by treating others with kindness and understanding.

It’s Okay to Walk Away

Sometimes, the healthiest thing you can do is disengage. When someone refuses to listen, respect your boundaries, or have a constructive conversation, walking away isn’t giving up—it’s self-preservation.

Your Life Is Yours to Live

No one has the right to dictate how you live your life, not even your parents. Their vision of success doesn’t have to be yours. You’re allowed to prioritize your happiness, well-being, and personal values over their expectations.

Today was frustrating, but it was also a reminder of how far I’ve come in standing up for myself. Setting boundaries is never easy, especially with family, but it’s essential for my growth and mental health. If you’re dealing with a similar situation, know that you’re not alone, and it’s okay to prioritize yourself.

Everyone deserves to feel heard and valued, even within their own family.

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Boundaries, Miscommunication & Owning Up

Today was one of those days where I felt like I was being dragged through the mud, not entirely sure how we ended up here but painfully aware that everyone was blaming me. The topic? Boundaries. And as much as I want to say I’m fine, I’m not.

It started with a family conversation—what should’ve been a simple, supportive chat turned into an episode where I was called out for not respecting boundaries. Do I own up to the fact that I probably overstepped? Yes, absolutely. But what annoys me is the complete lack of accountability from others involved. It felt like I was being put under a microscope while everyone else conveniently ignored their part in the situation.

Here’s the thing about boundaries: I know they’re important. I know they help us feel safe and respected. But if no one is vocal about what their boundaries are, how am I supposed to respect them? I’m not a mind reader. If you want me to understand where you’re coming from, you need to communicate it clearly. Otherwise, how can we build trust and respect each other’s limits?

In this particular situation, my sister was upset that I shared too much in the family group chat—things she thought should’ve stayed private. I understand now that she values her privacy and that this was her way of trying to enforce a boundary. But let’s be honest: the way it was handled wasn’t perfect either. It felt like she was reacting out of frustration rather than calmly explaining where her boundary was. And to top it off, other family members jumped in, adding pressure and escalating the situation.

What frustrates me the most is the imbalance in accountability. Yes, I shared openly, and maybe I should’ve paused to ask if that was okay. But on the flip side, I wasn’t the only one who contributed to the mess. Others were probing, questioning, and adding fuel to the fire. So why am I the only one being labeled as the problem?

This whole ordeal made me reflect on a few things about boundaries and communication:

1. Boundaries Only Work When They’re Communicated.

If you don’t tell people where your limits are, how can they possibly respect them? Unspoken boundaries often come across as assumptions, and that only leads to frustration for everyone involved.

2. Trauma Responses vs. Boundaries.

There’s a difference between a reaction driven by past pain and a clearly defined boundary. While trauma responses are valid, they’re not always fair to others, especially if they’re unspoken or leave no room for dialogue.

3. Accountability Goes Both Ways.

If we’re going to address boundaries, everyone involved needs to own their part in the situation. It’s not fair to single out one person while ignoring your own behavior.

4. Miscommunication Hurts Everyone.

At the heart of it, most conflicts come down to miscommunication. If we could all just take a moment to step back, express ourselves clearly, and listen, situations like this wouldn’t spiral out of control.

Moving forward, I’m trying to strike a balance. I know I have a tendency to share openly, and I see now how that can feel overwhelming to others. But I’m also not willing to be the scapegoat every time things go wrong. If we’re going to have honest, healthy communication, it has to go both ways.

So here’s my message to everyone involved: Let’s all be clear about what we want and what we’re comfortable with. Let’s stop pointing fingers without acknowledging our own role. And most importantly, let’s create a space where we feel safe to express ourselves without fear of judgment or blame.

Boundaries are important, yes. But so is accountability.

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