Do You Ever Feel Trapped in Your Own Home?

I've not had the best home life.

I was an accident. My mother was seventeen and stupid and, being part of the Indian community, knew the best way to screw her father over: to have a child with a black man. Scandal.

The community I grew up in doesn't have the best opinions on race. In fact, I would go as far as to say that there is a great deal of casual racism, mixed in with colourism and sexism. I remember very distinctly the way that interracial relationships were treated back then. "Have you heard about Priya," the local gossip would call my nan to ask, "she's dating! And a... white guy. Can you believe it?" The pause for effect was absolutely necessary.

Now, here I am, living with the guilt of being the thing to have almost torn my family apart all those years ago.

When I say I've not had the best home life, I don't mean that I was beaten or neglected. It would be utterly unfair for me to claim that. My mum worked hard as a single mum. My dad saw me every weekend without fail. My grandma spent her time raising me and the other 8-10 children that she childminded. I never went hungry. I never went cold or lacked a bed to sleep in. That's not the only way that a child can suffer, though.

When I say that I didn't have the best home life, I mean that I felt utterly forgotten. When I didn't feel forgotten, I felt like I was an inconvenience. I felt as though people showed their affection with money and material items only, and I was treated as ungrateful if I ever wanted more than that. Maybe I am ungrateful. Maybe they are right. I don't know. I never know.

What I do know is that I was the kid who, brought on lavish holidays to hot and exotic locations, would sit by the beach building sandcastles. Proud of my amazing inventions with little windows and a brick effect that would have taken me hours to get right, I would seek some validation. "Mum! Mum! Mum!"

I was never answered.

She was always too busy tanning or appreciating the holiday that it took her months and months to save up for. I, in the meantime, was a bored only child who felt as though no one was listening. At 6 years old, how could I have known that my mum had just done 18 late nights in the past month for us to have spending money for the trip?

You see, she wasn't rich. We were never rich. At home, I slept in the same room as her, both of us on single beds, until I was 17. We lived with my grandparents. Loving people! But my granddad was short-tempered and my grandma has... preconceived notions about children and being seen rather than heard. Just like her notions about how your parents are always in the right and should always be listened to, no matter whether you're 13 or 30.

I remember very distinctly a time when I was 7. I had no diary, so I had folded some pieces of paper together like a book and stapled them. In that, I wrote that I wished I could run away. I don't remember why. Well, my mum found it a few days later and brought a suitcase down from the attic. "If you want to run away, do it," she told me. I begged her to let me stay.

I was moved from school to school, taken out of my primary school at age 9 and put into an Indian school where the kids had already made friendships. By the time I made friends there, I was moved again at a random time – age 12. I went to a private Quaker's girls school where the friendships had already been formed at the start of secondary school the previous year.

I made one really close friend at that Indian school. We vowed to keep in touch over text and I went on a sleepover with her just before I never saw each other again. She sent me a text telling me that she was so sad we wouldn't be at school together. I tried to reply, but I had no credit. My mum wouldn't top it up because phones were "too much communication" and it was her belief that I didn't need a phone to make calls and texts to friends. Rather, I could simply answer her calls. This was before I was allowed on any kind of messaging or social media, so I lost contact with her. We never spoke again.

So I went to the new school and I was completely alone again.

It didn't help that I was unbelievably awkward. For most of my childhood, I only ever seemed to be praised for my brains or looks or abilities in a club. I only got attention when I had succeeded in a way that could be shown off to other people. It was never who I was as a person, but rather what I could do.

So, as a child who was a bit above the usual attainment level for kids my age, I tried to use my fun facts to wow my potential friends. When that didn't work, I fell back on what my family did: material items. I once bought a whole book series, Vampire Academy, just to make friends. The girls who spoke about the books all the time simply glanced over, said "cool" and went back to what they were talking about.

I got bitter. It was clearly them, right? I tried making up stories about myself to be more interesting. When they found out I was lying, I ended up looking like more of a tool than when I started. Nothing I did seemed to work. I just wasn't very good at reading the room and I wasn't as funny as I hoped I was.

I did make one friend, though. A young girl who loved to read just like me. We spend all of our time together. We laughed. We joked. We really didn't care that we weren't particularly popular. No one seemed to dislike us. We just didn't have a lot in common with them, as far as I could see.

Then, one day, she just stopped coming to school. It was weeks and weeks before I found out that she had cancer. I remember the feeling of pins and needles that infected my brain as I tried desperately to fathom what had happened. This was made worse after parents evening that year.

"She's very bright, but she doesn't apply herself. She doesn't do her homework". After hearing that for the 11th time that evening, my mum had made up her mind. No computer for me. No phone. Nothing. For 6 months. My best friend went through her chemo without a single text from me.

She came back to school briefly but then fell ill again. After going to a Make a Wish day out with her, she passed away 3 days later. On Sunday. I came to school on Monday and there were huge flowers on her desk. I felt so angry. No one would speak to me about what happened. The school wasn't offering bereavement. I didn't get counselling. I just stewed in my anger.

There are many reasons why I feel like my issues stem from my childhood. I struggle to maintain friendships over text or social media. I had a boyfriend who would buy me things as a substitute for actually showing me love. There are many other stories I could probably tell. Maybe I will. Right now, though, I'm back from university and I feel trapped in my own home.

Trapped like I was when I was a kid.