The right to disloyalty: The essay that lasted in my notebooks for almost 30 years.

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When I finally decided, after many years, to give a name to what I classified as "what hurt me for a while," it took me 30 years to find one.

It may not be the best name—in Spanish, the most honest one would be an insult—but I'm not like that anymore. I stopped fighting and decided to heal. My life wasn't easy while I struggled, from the age of 12, to understand. To write down on paper the motivations that a certain person, very close to me, had for asking my opinion about the cycle of family violence and, when I gave it to her, I saw her startled face and she told me that it sounded "too strong." She got up and then I saw her running to tell my mom that I thought she was stupid for putting up with my father violent temper just because she wanted to keep the family together.

And then my mother would come and slap me so hard that my lip bled for being "cheeky."

Thanks to that person, who supposedly loved me very much, something broke inside me. And I decided that the best way to vent and elevate what I feel and think was through writing.

All these years I have written, rewritten, analyzed how I should structure this essay on family, toxicity, and coexistence that becomes unbearable, to the point that it was best to give them "cool" names.

"The Dependent Tyrant" and "The Architect of Chaos" sound much more decent than "the good-for-nothing leech" or "the damn schemer." I learned the hard way that day when my mother decided to teach me, unintentionally, how the world works for sensitive people.

In this essay, I show you what it's like, from my own experience, to grow up with different types of people who make your life hell. I really don't hate them, but I prefer them far away.

I had to read essays, excerpts, and books on philosophy and psychology to be able to put down on paper something that, for me, was my guide to mental health. I even got a diploma in basic psychology to see if there was anything there that would help me understand what was going on with my family. And the result was an essay of approximately 88 pages that exorcised me and finally set me free.

I gave them names... and I gave myself a name too. Perhaps for someone else I am an archetype of those I describe in my own essay. For me, it was the end of a cycle.

And I hope it helps you as much as it helped me.

Mu essay is free in Inkitt. Of you want to support me is in Amazon KDP.





  

 

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