My name is Derrion, and I wish I could say my life was like the movies, full of adventure and laughter, but it’s different—complicated, like a puzzle with missing pieces. Most days feel like I’m walking through fog, just trying to find my way.
It all started when I was around ten. You know, the age when kids start realizing that not everything is what it seems. My parents were supposed to be there for me, but instead, they seemed to live in their own world, always fighting about money or work, their voices rising higher until I wanted to drown them out with anything—music, games, even the sound of my own heartbeat.
After their latest argument, the air in our small apartment felt thick and heavy. I sat on my bed, playing with a chipped toy car, more interested in its worn-out tires than the words being flung around downstairs. My mom was yelling about bills again. They always fought about money. It was like a never-ending cycle.
“Derrion! Get down here!” My mom's voice cut through my thoughts.
I took a deep breath and shuffled down the narrow hallway, each step heavy with dread. When I entered the living room, my dad was sitting on the couch, his face twisted in anger. “What is it now?” I remember my stomach knotting up, like I was about to dive into icy water.
“Can’t you help around the house? Do something useful?” My dad’s words pierced through me. I wanted to scream that I was just a kid, that I had homework and dreams of my own, but instead, I swallowed hard and nodded, fake-smiling like it would somehow fix everything.
Those moments were just the tip of the iceberg. Over time, I felt more like a ghost in my own home—ignored, avoided, and when noticed, often scolded. I often overheard my parents speak in hushed tones about me, words like “trouble” and “disappointment.” It stung, knowing they viewed me through such a grim lens.
School was no escape either. I struggled to keep up with assignments while my mind raced with thoughts of how I could make my parents proud. But no matter what grades I brought home, they always seemed overshadowed by the weight of their disappointment. It was like carrying a backpack full of rocks; every step felt heavier than the last.
I tried to talk to my mom once. “Can we just... talk?” I remember asking her, my voice trembling. We were sitting at the kitchen table, a place that used to be filled with laughter and stories but had become a battleground for silence.
“Not now, Derrion. I have too much on my plate.” She barely looked up from the dishes, her voice flat and tired. Those words echoed in my mind long after, solidifying my belief that I was a burden, a distraction.
As the years went by, I learned how to cope. I poured myself into sports and art, finding solace in the basketball court, where I could lose myself in the rhythm of the game, or in sketching my dreams on paper. Those moments were fleeting but powerful. They gave me a sense of freedom that I desperately needed.
But then came the storm. I remember it vividly, the night when my mom came home later than usual, her eyes red and cheeks puffy. I was watching TV, pretending everything was fine, but even I couldn’t ignore the tension that hung in the air. She dropped her bag on the floor and broke down, her sobs slicing through the silence like a knife.
“Your father... he’s leaving,” she said between breaths. The words crashed over me like a wave, washing away the little stability I had held onto. In that moment, I felt like the ground beneath me was crumbling. I thought my heart would explode with a mixture of anger, sadness, and confusion.
“Why now? Didn’t you love each other?” It was a naive question, and I regretted asking it as soon as the words left my mouth, but I couldn’t help it—I needed answers.
“Love isn’t enough,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. I didn’t want to believe her. I wanted to scream, to argue, to find a way to fix this mess. But instead, I just sat there, my world unraveling around me.
And just like that, my family broke apart. My dad moved out, leaving behind a silence that felt deafening. I was left feeling as if I had been cast adrift on a vast ocean, lost and hopeless.
That year was one of the hardest of my life. I remember my birthday, a day that should have been filled with celebration, instead spent in a small, lonely room, drowning in thoughts of what had been and what would never be again. It felt bitter, like the leftover piece of a cake no one wanted.
With time, things began to change. I spent more time with friends who understood. They saw the cracks in my armor and accepted me despite them. I learned that I had to be my own advocate, to carve out my own path rather than waiting for the support I longed for from my parents. I began to confront my feelings, not burying them under layers of anger or sadness but letting them breathe, even when it hurt.
Sometimes I still feel that ghostly pain—the memories of yelling, disappointment, and broken dreams. But amidst the chaos, I learned that I was more than my past. I was resilient. I was still becoming. And though the road ahead was rocky, I was determined to navigate it, carving out a life filled with hope, laughter, and the love I had always yearned for—starting with loving myself, for despite everything, I was still here, still fighting, and still hoping for a brighter tomorrow.