She was my first bully. 

Not the kids on the playground, 

not the whispers in hallways 

her. 

The woman who taught me how to flinch 

before anyone ever raised their voice. 

The woman who called it love 

while carving me down to something easier to control. 

Emotionally immature, 

a narcissist dressed up as a mother

everything was about her reflection, 

even when she was looking straight at me. 

When she’s angry, 

objects become language. 

Remote controls. 

Shoes. 

Whatever is closest to her hand. 

They fly toward me 

and somehow still land 

as my fault. 

“Look what you made me do.” 

As if rage needs permission. 

As if gravity obeys blame. 

I learned early 

that affection came with conditions. 

That praise was currency. 

That silence was punishment. 

I learned how to read the room 

like a survival skill

how to stand still, 

how to brace, 

how to disappear before something hits. 

She didn’t need fists. 

Her words were precise, 

sharp enough to lodge under skin. 

She watched my body 

like it was public property. 

Measured it. 

Commented on it. 

Compared it. 

She encouraged hunger 

and called it discipline. 

Called shrinking strength. 

Clapped when I disappeared a little more each day. 

The irony? 

Her best friend died 

because of an eating disorder. 

Died. 

And somehow that still wasn’t enough 

to stop her from handing me the same blade 

wrapped in concern. 

That’s when something fractured— 

the way I see myself. 

Because when the person who gives you life 

also teaches you to hate the space you occupy, 

every mirror becomes unreliable. 

Every reflection feels distorted. 

Like I don’t know 

if I’m seeing me 

or the version my brain learned to invent 

to survive her. 

She compares me 

to the people she hates the most. 

Calls me their names. 

Their failures. 

Their worst traits. 

And eventually you stop hearing it as comparison 

and start hearing it as truth. 

You think: 

If she despises them, 

and I am them— 

then she must despise me too. 

But here’s the part that messes with your head— 

I’m also her favorite. 

Because I stopped talking back. 

Stopped defending myself. 

Stopped asking why. 

I learned obedience is safer than honesty. 

Silence hurts less than resistance. 

I did what she said. 

I became agreeable. 

I became easy. 

Not because I agreed

but because compliance meant I wouldn’t get hurt. 

I became her therapist 

before I ever got to be a child. 

Held her emotions like fragile glass 

while mine shattered quietly on the floor. 

Listened to her trauma. 

Her grudges. 

Her version of every story— 

where she was always the victim 

and I was never allowed to be. 

There was never space for my needs. 

They were inconvenient. 

Too much. 

An interruption. 

So I learned to fold myself smaller 

and smaller 

until my pain fit inside her comfort. 

I hide the biggest parts of me now. 

My softness. 

My anger. 

My truth. 

Because anything I share 

becomes her gossip. 

My life repackaged for other people’s ears 

with her at the center of it. 

Nothing is sacred. 

Nothing is mine. 

And after every blow-up— 

after the screaming, 

the throwing, 

the damage— 

she wakes up the next day 

like nothing happened. 

No apology. 

No accountability. 

Just a performance of normal 

so convincing 

it makes you question your own memory. 

If I bring it up, 

I’m dramatic. 

Sensitive. 

Remembering it wrong. 

So I start doubting my own body, 

my own pain, 

my own reality. 

That’s how abuse survives— 

by pretending it never existed. 

She lives in the angles of my self-doubt, 

in the way I apologize for existing, 

in the hunger that had nothing to do with food. 

Growing up meant surviving someone 

who needed me small 

to feel big. 

Who needed me quiet 

to feel heard. 

Who needed control 

because she never learned how to love 

without it.  

From her I learned early how to listen. 

Not the casual kind, 

but the kind that teaches your body to go still 

before your mind ever catches up. 

The kind where your thoughts are folded small 

and tucked somewhere quiet 

so there’s room for someone else to spill. 

That was what kept me safe. 

Being calm. 

Being understanding. 

Being the place other people could empty themselves into 

without worrying about the mess. 

I became careful with my reactions, 

measured with my words, 

easy to lean on. 

No one asked what it cost 

because I never let it show. 

I learned that showing up meant bringing something with me. 

A solution. 

Reassurance. 

A steady presence when everything else was shaking. 

I learned to arrive already useful, 

because standing there with nothing to offer 

felt like taking up space I hadn’t earned. 

Listening stopped being a skill 

and became a condition. 

Helping turned into permission. 

And somewhere in the quiet of all that, 

I built the belief that without usefulness, 

I was optional. 

So I learned people quickly; 

the way their voices changed before they broke, 

the exact moment to interrupt a spiral, 

the right words to make them feel less alone. 

I learned to give before being asked, 

to anticipate needs so I wouldn’t be overlooked. 

It made me reliable. 

In hand It made me disappear. 

When they felt better, they left lighter. 

Conversations ended once their damage was contained. 

Texts slowed when there was nothing left for me to help fix. 

I stayed behind holding the residue, 

the emotional aftertaste of being needed 

and then dismissed. 

I told myself this was connection. 

I told myself this was normal. 

That belief lodged itself deep. 

It followed me into friendships, 

into love, 

into the way I apologized for breathing too loudly 

unless I was contributing something of value. 

I learned to measure my worth in usefulness, 

to calculate my place in real time 

am I helping enough to stay? 

Even in crowded rooms, 

part of me is scanning for purpose. 

Who’s hurting. 

Who’s unraveling. 

Who can I anchor myself to 

so I don’t drift into nothing. 

Standing there without a role 

feels like being underwater 

pressure building, lungs burning, 

waiting for someone to realize I’m sinking. 

I don’t ask. 

I don’t interrupt. 

I don’t show up empty-handed. 

It feels safer to be the one who holds 

than the one who reaches out shaking. 

Safer to offer fragments of myself 

than to risk placing the whole thing down 

and watching no one claim it. 

So I keep listening. 

Even when it hollows me out. 

Even when it leaves me unnamed. 

And when  

someone doesn’t need me. 

They sit with me without unraveling. 

They look at me without searching for what I can give. 

They ask questions that don’t lead anywhere useful. 

They wait through my silence 

like it isn’t an inconvenience. 

It feels wrong at first. 

Heavy. 

Exposing. 

Being wanted without function 

leaves me with nothing to hide behind. 

No script. 

No role. 

No justification. 

In friendship, it feels like being chosen 

for reasons I can’t track or control. 

They reach for me without crisis, 

without warning, 

just because they want to. 

And my chest tightens 

because I don’t know how to survive that kind of attention. 

In love, it cuts deeper. 

They notice when I shrink. 

They hold eye contact when I try to disappear. 

They don’t treat me like a temporary solution. 

And that kind of seeing 

makes the old fear scream 

that once I stop being useful, 

I’ll be too much to keep. 

The voice doesn’t leave. 

It tells me to pull away. 

To earn my place again. 

To give something before I’m abandoned. 

But when they hold me 

not to calm me, 

not to fix what’s breaking 

just to hold me 

something inside me goes quiet. 

Not healed. 

Not solved. 

Just… quiet. 

My body forgets to brace. 

My thoughts lose their edges. 

For a moment, I’m not calculating my worth 

or rehearsing my exit. 

The water stills, 

and I realize I’ve been holding my breath 

for years. 

It doesn’t feel like being saved. 

It feels like being exposed 

and choosing not to run. 

And that’s the part that stays with me 

not the peace, 

but the terror of being seen 

and the ache of wanting to stay anyway.  

I am unlearning her. 

Slowly. 

Painfully. 

Teaching myself that mirrors don’t get to decide my worth. 

That hunger doesn’t equal virtue. 

That being alive is not a flaw. 

She was my first bully

but she will not be my final voice