Overflowing with Feelings and Questions

Overflowing with Feelings and Questions

BY [ WAQAR ALI ]

A journal entry… or something like it.

Who is my mother? Or maybe the real question is—what has she become?

There are days I look at her and barely recognize the woman standing in front of me. She's cold. Distant. Sometimes even cruel.

What changed her? Was it money? Time? Emptiness? Or something darker, something I'll never be able to name or understand?

The more I try to trace back to where everything went wrong, the more lost I feel. I don’t just question our relationship—I question the very meaning of love. Of family. Of connection. These ideas feel like sand slipping through my fingers. The more I try to hold on, the less I seem to understand them.

I have a younger sister.

And she is clearly the favorite. No—more than that. Sometimes it feels like she’s the only one who matters.

It’s hard to explain the pain of being invisible to the one person who’s supposed to see you first.

She gets away with everything—stuff I couldn’t even dream of doing when I was her age. A phone of her own, polished nails, snacks whenever she wants, brand-new designer outfits, fake nails, lip gloss...

All the things I once begged for. And when I did, I was met with punishment. Not tantrums, mind you. Just hope—and rejection. Over and over.

Strangely, I’m grateful now.

At least I had a childhood. I wasn’t raised by a screen or numbed out by social media. Watching my siblings lose themselves in ten-hour scroll sessions, I feel lucky. If I’d been born even a year later, maybe that would’ve been me too.

But things at home are breaking down.

My mother is unraveling. Everyone sees it. People whisper that she needs help—the kind we can’t give her anymore. And as she falls further, so do we. The chaos pulls all of us under, one day at a time.

I’ve stopped expecting anything from her.

She doesn’t treat me like her child anymore. There was a time she hurt me physically. Now it’s words. Just words. But somehow, they cut deeper.

Some days I cry—only when I can't hold it in.

Other days, I’m too numb. I stay quiet. Or try to. But when I’m too tired, the hurt leaks out, whether I want it to or not.

Lately, the tears come less often.

Not because things are better, but because I’ve accepted it.

She doesn’t love me. She doesn’t want me to succeed. She tears me down constantly—intentionally.

She’ll resent every penny I spend, even when the money isn’t hers. And for what? I’ve never been reckless. I’ve never given her a real reason to hate me.

I’ve always worked hard.

Since I left school, I’ve held a full-time job. I eat clean. I stay fit. Sure, it’s not cheap—but it’s not pointless either. It’s a life I’m building for myself, piece by piece.

Yet every effort I make, she diminishes. She belittles. She tries to make me feel small, as if wanting more from life is a crime.

If this came from a stranger, I could brush it off.

But from my mother?

It hurts in ways I can’t explain.

And the worst part? There’s no hope for change.

No sign things will ever get better. The tension thickens, the pain deepens. Day after day. Year after year.

And the most haunting part?

I don’t even know why.

I don’t know what I did wrong.

I don’t know what broke her—what broke us.

Maybe that’s the hardest part of all:

Trying to fix something when you don’t even know what shattered in the first place.

Thanks for taking the time to read this. If any of this feels familiar, or if you're going through something of your own, feel free to share in the comments. And if this journal spoke to you—even just a little—leaving a like or a tip would mean the world. Your support keeps me writing. ❤️