Jul 26
ROOTED- by Kyraishere
Fears are strange things. They wear different masks for everyone. For some, it’s the dark. For others, it’s the absence of walls or the confinement of too many. Some scream at the sight of spiders. I suppose I do too—on a good day, when that’s the only threat.
But my fear? My real fear? It’s quieter. More patient. It’s not something I see with my eyes, but something I feel in my bones. It’s the fear that this feeling—the one pressing down on me, tightening in my chest like a vice—will never leave. That I will always be her.
The little girl hiding beneath the bed, flinching at footsteps. The girl forgotten in family photos, except when needed as a target. The girl who was taught to apologize for existing, to feel guilty even when she wasn’t to blame.
I fear I’ll never be good enough. Not for my family. Not for my son. Not for anyone.
This guilt… it lives inside me, like a second heartbeat. Some days, I tell myself I shouldn’t feel it. That it was never my fault. But then comes the whisper—maybe it was.
Depression has become my shadow. Not the kind that leaves when the lights go out—but the kind that grows darker. It creeps into the corners of my mind, curling into the places I try to keep hidden. It tells me I’m broken. That I’m only pretending to function. That I’m one mistake away from falling apart for good.
Anxiety? It’s like walking barefoot through glass every day. Every person I meet, my first instinct isn’t to say hello. It’s to ask: what do they want? What will they take?
It’s all rooted in me. Memories planted too young, too deep. Shouting. Crying. The crash of things thrown. The silence that followed. That look—the one with all the anger but none of the love. I knew it before I could form full sentences. By two years old, I had memorized the undertones of violence. The way a house breathes before it screams.
By two years old, I was told to call a monster “Dad.”
His hands weren’t always rough. Sometimes they were gentle in a way that made my stomach twist. Sometimes, he didn’t hit. Sometimes, he whispered. Told me I was dreaming. Told me to stop fighting. Told me to let him in. I didn’t know then that monsters don’t always come with claws—they come with rules. Secrets. Smiles.
Now, it’s all part of me. Written into my skin like a second script. Etched into my bones like initials carved into old wood. I grew up thinking that living was sinning. That survival was a kind of guilt.
I try to tell myself I’m free now. That I’m grown. But the roots are still there. Thick and tangled. Winding through every memory, every choice, every part of me.
I am the oak tree that never learned to bend—just stood still and took the storms. And these roots? They won’t lift. Because they are me. And I am them.
Rooted. From the beginning
Fears are strange things. They wear different masks for everyone. For some, it’s the dark. For others, it’s the absence of walls or the confinement of too many. Some scream at the sight of spiders. I suppose I do too—on a good day, when that’s the only threat.
But my fear? My real fear? It’s quieter. More patient. It’s not something I see with my eyes, but something I feel in my bones. It’s the fear that this feeling—the one pressing down on me, tightening in my chest like a vice—will never leave. That I will always be her.
The little girl hiding beneath the bed, flinching at footsteps. The girl forgotten in family photos, except when needed as a target. The girl who was taught to apologize for existing, to feel guilty even when she wasn’t to blame.
I fear I’ll never be good enough. Not for my family. Not for my son. Not for anyone.
This guilt… it lives inside me, like a second heartbeat. Some days, I tell myself I shouldn’t feel it. That it was never my fault. But then comes the whisper—maybe it was.
Depression has become my shadow. Not the kind that leaves when the lights go out—but the kind that grows darker. It creeps into the corners of my mind, curling into the places I try to keep hidden. It tells me I’m broken. That I’m only pretending to function. That I’m one mistake away from falling apart for good.
Anxiety? It’s like walking barefoot through glass every day. Every person I meet, my first instinct isn’t to say hello. It’s to ask: what do they want? What will they take?
It’s all rooted in me. Memories planted too young, too deep. Shouting. Crying. The crash of things thrown. The silence that followed. That look—the one with all the anger but none of the love. I knew it before I could form full sentences. By two years old, I had memorized the undertones of violence. The way a house breathes before it screams.
By two years old, I was told to call a monster “Dad.”
His hands weren’t always rough. Sometimes they were gentle in a way that made my stomach twist. Sometimes, he didn’t hit. Sometimes, he whispered. Told me I was dreaming. Told me to stop fighting. Told me to let him in. I didn’t know then that monsters don’t always come with claws—they come with rules. Secrets. Smiles.
Now, it’s all part of me. Written into my skin like a second script. Etched into my bones like initials carved into old wood. I grew up thinking that living was sinning. That survival was a kind of guilt.
I try to tell myself I’m free now. That I’m grown. But the roots are still there. Thick and tangled. Winding through every memory, every choice, every part of me.
I am the oak tree that never learned to bend—just stood still and took the storms. And these roots? They won’t lift. Because they are me. And I am them.
Rooted. From the beginning
