I wrote about trauma.
About a childhood steeped in it.
About learning to say 'no' in a world that expected me to always say 'yes'.
See, I was conditioned to be the 'good' son.
The 'helpful' friend. The one who always put others' needs before his own.
It’s funny… how we carry the echoes of our past. How the fear of a father's raised hand can translate into an inability to decline a dinner invitation. I was six when he first hit me. Six.
“Matt, can you help me with this?” “Matt, are you busy on Saturday?” “Matt, Matt, Matt…”
Always Matt. Always there. Always… pleasing.
But behind the mask of compliance, a different narrative was brewing. It simmered in my gut, a low hum of discontent. Why did 'yes' feel like a betrayal? A betrayal of myself.
"No." I whispered it to myself, testing the word on my tongue. It felt… foreign. Strange.
And yet… liberating.
The transformation wasn't easy. It was a slow unraveling, a shedding of skin I had outgrown. Therapy helped. Writing helped—bleeding my truth onto the page, night after night.
I began setting boundaries. Saying 'no' to the things that drained me, to the people who took without giving. It was terrifying, exhilarating, and ultimately, the most empowering thing I've ever done.
Did people get upset? Sure. Did I lose friends? Maybe.
But the ones who truly mattered… they understood. They saw the me I was becoming. The real me.
And you know what? I kind of like him.
The question "Are you?" hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken truths.
Am I happy?
It’s a loaded question, isn't it? One that deserves more than a trite answer whispered into the void of a sleepless night.
See, happiness, for someone like me, isn't some easily attainable state of bliss. It's a battle won in the trenches of my own mind, a negotiation with a past that whispers its anxieties in the dead of night.
I am a man of unconventional tales, grappling with matters that often keep me awake when the rest of the world slumbers.
I was twenty, convinced of my invincibility. But trauma has a way of stripping away those youthful illusions, leaving you raw and exposed. It forces you to confront the fragility of your own existence.
It was the night my mother finally left him that I truly understood the depths of her courage.
A silent testament to the strength it takes to break free.
The 'yeses' that once tumbled out of me like a nervous reflex have become a carefully curated selection. "No" is no longer a foreign word on my tongue, but a shield I wield with a newfound confidence.
It's the line drawn in the sand between the expectations of others and the truth of my own needs.
I am no longer that scared little boy, shrinking under the weight of his father's expectations.
I am the sum of every 'no' I've uttered, every boundary I've set.
I am the stories I write, the truths I bleed onto the page.
I am Matt, and I am finally free.
good words 🙃🙃🙃🤗🤗🤗😘😘😘😍😍😍🥰🥰🥰
Great expoze, Matt! I fully understand the frustrations of not being able to say what needs to be said.
Glad you pulled through it. Writing really does help.