I Was Raised to Hide Pain

I Was Raised to Hide Pain

I was raised being beaten by my parents until I was twenty. A lot of people born in the ’90s probably grew up like I did. The older generations, even more so. Being hit because I did something wrong was fine. That was my fault, so all I had to do was reflect on it. But more often, I was beaten for no reason at all. Whenever my parents had a stressful day at work, I became their punching bag. I was hit with fists, feet, broomsticks, wooden swords — anything they could get their hands on. My body was covered in bruises, and sometimes even my bones cracked. You must never cry while being beaten. Because they hit harder if you do. You must never vent your anger alone in your room either. Because you get beaten even worse and thrown out. So from elementary school onward, I never cried while being hit. At first, I stopped crying because I had learned not to. But later, I refused to cry out of sheer spite. I didn’t want to lose. I was proud of myself for not crying while being beaten. I thought it made me look strong. But from then on, my chest began to feel heavy. The emotions I could never spit out started piling up inside me. That garbage kept building up until it became a massive, solid wall. And eventually, that wall became something that hid my weakness. If it collapses, I collapse too.