So fragile, yet still standing.

We all carry invisible maps — drawn not with ink, but with memories, pain, and the quiet shifts inside us. This is mine.

was too foolish to believe that being intelligent would make people see me, but maybe what’s killing me every day is simply that I am different from my family.

They said I was manipulative, that I tried to steal money from my mother, from my sister, that I was the favored one.

But maybe no one ever saw the helplessness of a child who could only observe, who didn’t have enough power to do anything.

My grandmother, my father, my aunt, my uncle — they all looked at me with the same eyes, believing I would take all the money in the house and make it mine, just because I could analyze things. But they never once gave me any money. What they wanted wasn’t fairness — it was reputation.

They called me fat when I was only six and stopped me from eating breakfast, even though I was just a rounder child than my skinny sister — my bones were big, that’s all.

They said I plotted against my sister, that I lied about everything, when all I did was spend the whole day in the garden or in my room.

When I entered university, they said I was a machine that only worked for money.

But at that time, they still forced me into a top school, then sent me abroad to a faraway city with no job, no way to pay tuition.

Then my grandmother used her own large amount of money to go abroad herself, telling my father that it was for me.

My father went around telling people that I was wasting money, that I was ruining the family.

And nothing heavier could happen than when my ex — who had narcissistic personality disorder — refused to get a real job, cheated on me, and compared me endlessly with others in both looks and personality.

I truly shattered then.

My family hasn’t contacted me since my grandfather died.

My grandmother said I was crazy, overthinking, that my sister was the poor one because she was “carefree.”

But she yelled at others whenever she was unhappy, even at her mother-in-law.

I never yelled at anyone.

I only knew how to collapse and hold my dog in that peak of helplessness. I became invisible in that house. The house where my father always said, “I don’t need my child to be smart,” but he kept comparing me to every kid in the neighborhood, making my mother find tutors for me.

Days passed, and I faced that endless stream called “be positive, don’t talk about negativity.” My friends said that too. But I wanted to ask: if what happens is real, if its energy can be felt — why do people keep avoiding it, chasing after the illusion of positivity? The current of the world flows opposite to my thoughts. I feel so small, so transparent, like my body doesn’t exist — only pain and the sound of my own crying have form.

I want to float, to spin one full circle in the air to dodge the arrows of judgment, to take one long step away from the crowd, to dance freely — until the weight of the body disappears, until I vanish into the space around me.

I am visible and invisible at the same time —

visible because of the burden of existence, invisible because the pain of my soul has torn my body apart just to keep existing. Pain that is visible and invisible — only those who truly understand me can see it. Those who only look at me, cannot.