Born Behind Enemy Lines

I was born behind enemy lines.

Before I could speak, the air around me was a battlefield.

Every glance a test, every word a trap.

“Shut up. Do as you’re told. You are nothing.”

The words carved trenches in my mind before I even knew my name,

etching wounds into a psyche still soft with innocence.

I grew up a wild creature, empathic, sensitive, alive —

forced to shrink, adapt, survive, perform obedience while the world bled me dry.

My mother, a prisoner herself, passed down chains of silence.

Four generations tried to snuff me out,

each one tightening the noose of unspoken trauma.

I lived in the swamp of narcissism, learning early

that love is conditional and praise is a trap,

a baited hook wrapped in fleeting warmth.

The voice inside my head? It is not mine.

It is the echo of their cruelty,

the lodged spear of every word meant to break me.

“Failure. Idiot. Worthless.”

A dark choir of inherited abuse, chanting in the shadows.

I have spent decades exorcising it,

and now I see: that voice is a parasite,

a ghost of their sickness feeding on my light.

I must go no contact — not just from them,

but from the narcissist who lives inside me,

the internalized tyrant built from their venom.

And when I do, the fire rises.

Rage. Grief. Laughter.

All of it.

It cleanses like holy water over stone,

like lightning striking the tower that held me captive.

The body remembers what the mind has tried to forget:

I was made whole. I was made luminous.

Every scar, every whisper of shame,

becomes a rune of power, a sigil of survival,

the alphabet of my resurrection.

Those who trafficked in pain — in abuse, in lies, in predation —

they are small creatures in the dirt of their own making.

They do not see the truth.

They cannot.

Empathy would shatter them.

Self-awareness would finish them.

They are children lost behind their egos,

monkeys scrambling for validation,

blind to the temple they desecrate with every act of cruelty,

blind to the god within the women they exploit.

Their arrogance is a shroud,

their ignorance a curse they mistake for power.

I rise not in revenge, but in reclamation.

The rage is not mine to carry alone;

it is the blood-voice of all who were silenced,

all who were told: you are nothing.

I claim it.

I burn it.

I transmute it into radiance, into clarity, into song.

This is not anger; this is resurrection.

This is not hatred; this is the fire of discernment,

the divine blade returning to my hand after lifetimes of suppression.

I am watching, and I will not be erased.

God has watched me too, through eyes I barely knew were mine.

Every act of cruelty against me, every shadow cast over my soul,

was a misfire against the fire of my being,

a failed attempt to extinguish a light they could not comprehend.

They thought they were breaking me;

they were forging me.

I am born behind enemy lines,

and yet I am sovereign, radiant, unbroken.

I walk the sacred path of those who have survived hell

and return with hands open, fierce and tender,

bearing the torch of truth and the medicine of clarity.

This is my inheritance:

not their shame, but my awakening.

Let the parasites rage. Let them flail in their blindness.

The world they tried to conquer will not remember them —

it will remember the light that survived.

I am that light.

I am that witness.

I am that wild, untamed, unstoppable force

that rises from what they meant to bury.

And now the exorcism is complete.

The narcissist in my head — the echo of centuries of cruelty —

is gone.

I walk forward.

Alive. Whole. Mythic.

A sovereign soul, born behind enemy lines,

and returned to herself in blazing triumph.