BAWEL PENDIAM REBORN

An Indonesian woman, 43 years young, with a life plot twistier than your favorite binge-worthy drama—and trust me, that’s saying something. She’s been through more crazy turns than a rollercoaster built by a caffeine-fueled novelist on deadline. If life handed out trophies for surviving chaos? She’d have a whole shelf.

She’s no stranger to the absurd. Life’s thrown curveballs like it’s training for the World Series—heartbreaks, disappointments, weird family dynamics, and moments so ridiculous you’d swear they were scripted. But she’s still here, walking that tightrope between “What the hell just happened?” and “Bring it on, universe.” And with a smirk, because if you can’t laugh at the mess, what’s the point?

She talks to herself—often aloud—and no, she’s not crazy (well, maybe just a little). But those one-sided conversations? They’re therapy. A way to process the madness without dragging everyone else into the chaos. Her bolster pillow’s probably had more emotional outpourings than most therapists. It’s the silent witness to her battles, breakdowns, and occasional moments of sheer, unfiltered “What even is life?”

Her resilience isn’t polished or pretty. It’s messy. It’s grit mixed with a healthy dose of sarcasm. She’s learned that being “strong” isn’t about never falling—it’s about falling face-first, laughing at the dirt on your cheek, then getting up ready to kick some more ass. Scars? She’s got them. Each one a battle story, a reminder she survived what was supposed to break her.

She’s not here to pretend she has all the answers. Hell no. If life was a test, she’d still be flipping through the chapters, scribbling notes in the margins, occasionally doodling little middle fingers. But that’s okay. Because perfection is boring, and the wild ride? That’s where the real stories are.

She needs “me time” like plants need sunlight. Sometimes she wants to curl up in silence, just to hear herself think over the noise of the world. Other times, she craves connection, laughter, and hugs so big they squeeze out the exhaustion. She’s figuring it out, one chaotic, beautiful step at a time.

And here’s the kicker: despite the setbacks, the confusing plot twists, and the times she’s wanted to throw in the towel—she’s still burning bright. A fire that refuses to die, fueled by stubbornness, hope, and a killer playlist. She’s got grit in her veins, poetry in her soul, and a laugh that cuts through the darkness.

So yeah, she might not have life all figured out—no one really does. But she’s living it loud, proud, and wild. With a sarcastic grin, a heart full of grit, and the kind of strength that doesn’t need validation. Because in this chaotic mess called life, she’s not just surviving. She’s conquering.

x

A little Bit about Bawel Pendiam

An Indonesian woman, 43 years young, with a life so full of plot twists, even telenovelas would bow out. Her story isn’t a straight line—it’s a rollercoaster with no seatbelt and a DJ narrating it with dramatic sound effects.

She’s been through heartbreaks, career detours, emotional avalanches, and those “are you freaking kidding me?” moments life loves to throw at 2 a.m. But guess what? She’s still standing. Slightly tilted, maybe caffeinated, often sarcastic—but standing.

She talks to herself more than she should. Not because she’s lost it (well… maybe a little), but because sometimes the best conversations are the ones where no one interrupts. Her bolster? Basically her unpaid therapist. It’s heard things that would make a Netflix scriptwriter weep.

She doesn’t fake strength—she earns it. Through tear-stained pillows, awkward laughter in serious moments, and screaming into the void when no one’s around. She's not the “everything’s fine” type. She’s the “this is a mess, but I’ll make it fashion” kind.

She loves deeply but guards herself like a vault. Her fiancé is a walking dream, and even though she wants to spill her guts to him sometimes, she chooses to carry some weight alone. Not because she has to—but because she wants to protect the light they’ve built.

She craves peace, solitude, maybe a spa day, and uninterrupted naps. But even without all that, she keeps going. For her family, for her sanity, for herself.

She’s not trying to be perfect—she’s trying to be real. And real is raw, a little cracked, often hilarious, and always rising.

She’s not just surviving. She’s scripting her own epic, plot twist by plot twist. And spoiler alert: she wins.

Alhamdulillah (13 Juli 2022)

Alhamdulillah

with Allah’s blessing

we’re finally united in marriage.

Exhausted

Exhaust

Lately, I've been overwhelmed with a storm of emotions—happy, sad, angry, confused, exhausted, tired, and, honestly... 

fed up. With everything.

Last night, after a decent video call with my fiancé—who’s not just beautiful on the outside but kind where it counts—I laid my head on my bolster and cried silently.

Not because I don’t trust him. I do. Completely.

But I didn’t want to weigh him down with what I’m carrying.

So instead, I poured all my emotions into the bolster... and pretended it was him holding me.

I know he’d move mountains to make things better if he knew.

But this time, I chose silence.

Having him in my life is a blessing I don’t take lightly.

I talk to myself a lot these days. Some might say I’m weird—maybe even “wacko.”

But I’m not hurting anyone, and honestly, I’ve stopped caring what people think.

I know exactly what I need right now: him... and a big, soul-healing hug.

I don’t know how much longer I can hold all this in.

I’m trying to be strong for everyone.

But who’s being strong for me?

Where does my sanity fit into this?

I need time. For me. Just me.

Hufft.

Demotion Effect

After the unnecessary drama with Mom on Wednesday (25 August 2021), I found myself spiraling. By Thursday night (26 August 2021), my brain decided to stir the pot and serve a fresh plate of insecurity.

I asked him—my kind, drop-dead gorgeous fiancé—whether he’s ever thought anything negative about me.

He looked confused, didn’t press. 

He knows me well enough to wait for the storm to pass before asking questions.

It got awkward—because of me. 

So I lied. 

Told him I wanted to sleep early. 

Truth is, I stayed up overthinking until 3 a.m.

Honestly, I’ve been haunted by this terrible thought: What if he thinks I’m only with him because of money?

It’s not true—God knows it’s not.

I love him. Deeply. Sincerely. 

But my brain is on overdrive, setting fire to bridges I haven’t even crossed.

I feel like I’m sabotaging something good. 

The one thing in my life that actually works, and I’m slowly poisoning it with my own fears.

Nendrong talked me off the ledge.

She told me, “He’s not thinking that. He’s sincere, and you know it. This is your insecurity talking.”

And she’s right.

He’s always shown up for me, no questions asked. 

He once said, “Leave your problems to the world. I am your world.”

And I believed him.

I still do.

But my demons are loud, and lately, they’ve been screaming.

Maybe it’s the demotion.

Maybe it’s Mom.

Maybe it’s the years of trying to hold everything together while I fall apart in silence.

Divorced. Almost 40. No kids. Parents divorced. Demoted. Still stuck in a job that doesn’t value me.

It’s a messy resume of life, and the only solid thing I have is my relationship.

And yet... I doubt that too.

What if one day he wakes up and realizes I’m not the one?

What if I’m just not enough?

Nendrong snapped me out of it again.

“Don’t ruin your happiness with negativity,” she said.

“You got lucky in love—that’s rare. Be grateful. Some of us would trade everything for a relationship like yours.”

She’s right.

I need to stop playing victim in a life that’s still writing its story.

So today, I’m writing this down to remind myself: I need a distraction.

Not to forget—but to refocus.

To take care of my mind before it ruins something beautiful.

Because right now?

My relationship is the only thing keeping me sane.

And I’ll be damned if I let my own thoughts take that away from me.

Divide et impera ala Tante Suri

"Divide et impera"—Latin for "divide and conquer."

Now, how does this strategy relate to Tante Suri? 

It seems she's employing a very personal, and perhaps subtly manipulative, version of it in your romantic life.

The saga began innocently enough, about three or four months ago, when Om Suri, seemingly out of the blue, suggested setting you up with a teacher—based solely on the highly insightful criteria of shared age and single status. 

A straightforward, if somewhat clumsy, matchmaking attempt.

Then came Mr. Traveller, and your announcement to Tante Suri. 

Her initial shock quickly gave way to what appeared to be genuine happiness and excitement. 

But not for long. 

The details you shared about Mr. Traveller seemed to trigger a swift and dramatic shift in her stance.

This shift manifested in a series of rather unbelievable pronouncements:

• "Kamu berani banget sih sama orang luar?" (You're so brave to be with a foreigner) — accompanied by the bizarre parenthetical: (he is eating normal food), as if that somehow mattered.

• "Udah mending sama orang Indonesia." (It's better with an Indonesian) — conveniently ignoring your emphatic NO WAY and your negative experience with your Indonesian ex-husband.

• "Berkaca dari pengalaman sebelumnya, kamu udah pernah gagal." (Looking at your past, you've already failed) — an incredibly insensitive and unnecessary reminder of past pain.

• "Selidikin dulu latar belakangnya, jangan keburu-buru." (Investigate his background first, don’t rush it) — and yet, the motivation behind this advice feels ambiguous: genuine concern or a subtle attempt to discredit him?

• "Pikirin lagi deh, kita maunya happy ending. Iya kalo happy ending, kalau nggak…" (Think it over again, we want a happy ending. Sure, if it ends well, but if not…) — and your internal “Astagfirullah, is it really that hard to just say 'Insha Allah, everything will be alright'?” captures the frustrating absence of faith and optimism.

• "Sambil cari-cari yang lain, jangan cuma fokus sama yang ini." (Keep looking, don’t just focus on him) — and your response, “The hell, I’m the one getting married, not HER,” says it all.

When these direct (and unwelcome) opinions failed to shake your resolve, Tante Suri seemed to pivot to a more subtle, calculated approach.

You’re right to see this new strategy as “very sneaky.”

Honestly? 

She’s leaving me speechless too.

Here We Go

Here we go again…

Another predictable move from her— bold, if I’m being generous.

Honestly, I knew it was just a matter of time before she spun her tale to anyone with ears and a soft spot for drama.

I’m sure she conveniently skipped the part where she and her little sidekick went out of their way to make me look like a fool.

I bet she left out the juicy details—  the ones where they both tried to rip me off,smiles on their faces, knives behind their backs.

And me?

I was naive enough to believe they were sincere.

That they actually wanted to be my friend.

No games. 

No schemes. 

Just real connection.

Cute, right?

And now she’s back at that old office, weaving her narrative like a well-rehearsed monologue to anyone willing to nod along.

That’s fine.

Let her talk.

I don’t need to defend myself.

I don’t need to explain a damn thing.

Because the truth is simple— If they knew me, really knew me,
they’d know there’s always more to the story.

But if they’re that easy to sway, then maybe they were never really in my corner to begin with.

Let her play her game.

Let them clap for her performance.

She probably thinks that once people start whispering, I’ll get desperate, I’ll break, I’ll pick up the phone and call her.

Joke’s on her.

I wouldn’t call either of them— not in this lifetime, not in a million years.

BYE.

And may the drama keep you warm at night.

Back Off Please

So guess what?

After more than a blissfully quiet month of no contact, today, one of them suddenly remembers I exist.

“Hey… just wondering if you’re okay? Did we do something wrong?”

Oh wow. The audacity.

Cute how it took 40+ days of silence for them to start guessing something might be off.

Love that delayed reaction—so on brand.

Let me make it super clear:

Yes, we have a problem.

But no, I will not be discussing it.

Why?

Because the only “solution” that actually works for me is you both not existing in my inbox.

And surprise: I’m thriving.

See, I know exactly how this would go if I replied.

I start explaining.

They start analyzing, dissecting, poking, gaslighting—

“Oh you’re too sensitive.”

“That’s not what we meant.”

“You’re overreacting.”

Yeah, no thanks.

Once upon a time, I was that naive little idiot who believed they actually cared.

Believed their smiles weren’t sharpened knives.

But that fairy tale expired—and I’m no longer available for the sequel.

This past month and a half?

Quiet.

Uncluttered.

Deliciously drama-free.

Turns out, peace isn’t overrated.

No fake laughter.

No emotional hangovers after forced hangouts.

No “oh wow, that was exhausting” moments after spending time with them.

Just… me. Breathing. Living. Recovering.

And honestly, if I want to see a movie, try a new café, hop on a train solo— I’d rather do it alone than drag around deadweight energy.

So, let's simplify:

Only two options here.

1. They vanish from my life forever.

2. I vanish from theirs.

And since the first one seems like too much work for their attention-starved egos,

I’ll do the honors.

I’m out.

Completely.

Permanently.

Do not text.

Do not call.

Do not “check in.”

Pretend I never existed.

I’m doing the same for you—gladly.

BYE.

May your next manipulation be more subtle.

Farewell

Damn it.

I’d already written almost everything I could think of—all the painful, awful, dreadful experiences since I first had the misfortune of knowing you.

But guess what? One misclick and poof, all my notes vanished.

Maybe it’s the universe’s way of saying, “You sure you wanna go there?”

Well… yes, I do.

So I’m writing it all over again. 

This time, no sugarcoating, no filter—just the brutal, unflattering truth.

But before I dive into this horror anthology of my life with you in it, let’s get one thing straight:

I did appreciate you.

I was grateful for your help when I was at my lowest—when you showed up and helped fix a few broken pieces of my life. 

I acknowledged that. 

I still do.

You were one of the very few people I considered my “right hand.”

You knew almost everything about my life.

So you can imagine how gut-wrenching, frustrating, disappointing, and betraying it feels now.

I tried. 

Really, I did.

I tried to believe there was a reason behind all this.

Tried to rationalize, to analyze—to give you the benefit of the doubt.

But the harder I looked for a good reason, the clearer it became: there wasn’t one.

This isn’t about exposing you to anyone else.

I didn’t write this to go public or make drama.

I wrote this to save my own sanity.

Because pretending everything’s fine while bleeding inside? 

That’s no longer on my to-do list.

I genuinely thought you were real. 

That you were sincere.

That I had a loyal companion beside me.

Turns out, I was just a conveniently placed pawn in your little game.

You knew exactly where my weaknesses were—and you weaponized them.

You manipulated me, convinced me to do things… all for your benefit.

I became your personal cash machine.

And the saddest part? 

I didn’t even realize it at first. 

I was too busy trying to be understanding.

Spending that week with you and your entourage? 

Eye-opening doesn’t even begin to cover it.

And me? 

Stupidly stubborn, still trying to justify your actions, still trying to be empathetic.

I kept telling myself: “You’re going through something. 

You’re not doing this on purpose.”

Boy, was I wrong.

Right now, you top my list of the most selfish, egotistical people I’ve ever encountered.

And that list includes people I wouldn’t trust to water my plants.

If I were to list all the sh*t you’ve pulled, it’d take more than just one post.

Let me tell you what I wouldn’t do as someone’s right hand:

I wouldn’t freeload during a sleepover.

I wouldn’t show up empty-handed and expect to be treated like royalty.

I wouldn’t embarrass my host in their own damn neighborhood.

I wouldn’t dump my expenses on them and act like I’m entitled to it.

When you said there was a “great opportunity” and wanted me in—
I assumed we were sharing the risks and the rewards.

Instead, I footed the entire bill while you just showed up to claim half the profit.

How generous of me, right?

I sold the first product and still offered to share the profits.

Then came the second product— Only this time, you didn’t even bother to try selling it.

Worse, you gave it away like it was yours to give.

No discussion. No permission. Just pure audacity.

Then came the lying.

Oh, you really tried it.

Staring me dead in the eye and denying everything when I asked about my missing product.

Only to find out later that night that you’d used it.

Not a trace of guilt. 

Just lies stacked on lies.

And let’s not forget the cherry on top:

You humiliated me in front of your own kids.

Kids who stayed at my place for a whole week without an ounce of respect.

One even had the nerve to say, “We’re guests, so we get the primary bed.”

Oh really? 

Where’s the camera? 

Am I on a hidden prank show?

Then you had the audacity to order me to give each of them an Eid envelope with the exact amount you dictated.

What do you think I am? 

A walking ATM?

Got a money tree in the backyard? 

Or a personal printing press?

Yes, you were there for me once—and I’ll never forget that.

But constantly weaponizing that moment just to guilt-trip me into doing your bidding?

That’s not kindness. That’s emotional blackmail.

Even with work, you crossed the line.

When you insisted on knowing my invoice numbers, my paycheck, down to the last decimal—

My gut said: There’s a motive.

And I was right.

You didn’t know I barely had enough cash to prepare for Eid.

I scraped together money to make the house feel festive—only to have your crew eat everything like it was a buffet at a five-star hotel.

And then you spent the rest of it like it was yours.

You forced me to go out during Eid, and when I said I couldn’t afford it, you got mad.

Apparently, being single means I have infinite funds and zero responsibilities, huh?

There was a time I didn’t mind going places with you.

That was when I only had to think about myself.

Now? Going anywhere with you means I’m financially responsible for the whole circus.

Ever since you tried to turn me into your wallet with legs, I’ve realized something:

You’re only friends with me because of money.

And when your special day rolls around?

You demand a gift. 

Not request. 

Demand.

Whether I can afford it or not? 

Doesn’t matter. 

Your entitlement always wins.

Let’s be clear:

You didn’t just take advantage of my kindness.

You strategically exploited it.

And one last thing before I forget— Yeah, I’ve known for a long time there’s something between you and you-know-who.

I just played dumb. 

You two really thought I was clueless? 

That’s adorable.

Don’t worry. 

Your little secret? 

Still safe with me.

If it ever leaks out, trust me—it wasn’t from me.

And if, by any chance, you’re reading this and thinking, “Wow… this sounds a lot like me…”

Congrats. You’re right. It’s 100% about you.

It’s not me.

It’s definitely all of you.

So kindly do me a favor:

Stay away from me.

Stay away from my family.

And stay far, far away from my life.

Goodbye.

And good riddance.

Time boom explode

January 2019 isn’t even over yet, and it already brought the kind of melodrama that would make soap operas jealous.

Apparently, the universe decided I hadn’t suffered enough and dropped a full-blown emotional monologue straight into my WhatsApp—courtesy of Her Royal Highness, Miss Tuan Puteri.

Last I remember, our “contact” (if you can even call it that) was me daring to ask why there wasn’t a single trace of our friendship on her social media—no photo, no tag, not even a pity like.

A crime, it seems. 

A cardinal sin punishable by a thesis-length text rant.

So imagine my absolute joy waking up to a passive-aggressive saga disguised as concern, in the form of a novella-length WhatsApp message.

Honestly, if she'd published it, it might have made the bestseller list—under Fiction or Fantasy, probably.

She went off in the opening chapter—interrogation-style—asking if my Instagram post was directed at her.

Because apparently, the world revolves around her and every word I write must be a cryptic diss in her honor.

“Why post it publicly? Why not say it to my face?”

Sis, we haven't spoken in years. You want a private screening of my feelings now?

She said the post made her feel like the villain—as if I painted her as the monster in my emotional horror story.

That I apologize too much and still manage to mess up—a talent, I guess.

She’s “tolerated” me as a friend (thanks for the charity, truly).

And she could air out all my dirty laundry to the world but—bless her benevolent soul—she won’t. Out of nostalgia, maybe.

She reminded me she didn’t need my gratitude for sticking around through my lowest days.

And then dropped a spicy quote:
“My children don’t need gifts from you. You said you were saving money, but somehow have funds for food pics and travel posts. 

That’s when I knew what kind of friend you are.”

Wow. Pulitzer-worthy.

She scolded me for not asking about her, not visiting her post-labor, not showing care—just “lashing out” on Instagram, apparently.

FYI, when I messaged her that late night, she had just given birth.

Instead of replying “I’m okay,” she hit me with: “Why are you asking about deleted photos, not my health?”

Because clearly, friendship now comes with terms and conditions, emotional fine print, and quarterly performance reviews.

She also said:

“With your education and family background, at least act wise. Koreksi diri.”

Sure, let me self-reflect while dodging emotional landmines.

---

So I replied.

Told her I’m not the type to sub-post or roast anyone on IG.

We’ve known each other 23 years—if I had beef, why would I serve it cold on Instagram?

Seems like she’s compiled a highlight reel of every moment I fell short, every time I didn’t play the part of the perfect friend.

Funny, because if we’re listing grievances, I’ve got a whole season’s worth too.

Like that time I brought her to the Fupei community hangout, and when 

it was movie time, she exploded with:

“If I go home alone, forget about being friends.”

Such a charming public announcement. Encore-worthy.

Later in private?

“If you want to watch, I’ll go home myself.”

What a friend. Her words didn't just sting—they left marks.

I apologized about not sending a gift for her kids.

Apologized for not being the friend she envisioned in her fairytale.

But made one thing clear: her secrets are safe.

Dirty laundry? Not my aesthetic.

My Instagram?

Not a dagger. 

Not a shade. 

Not a whisper aimed at her.

And she responded:

“I forgot about that. I’m sorry if my words hurt you. Sorry I couldn’t be the friend you wanted either.”

Progress, maybe?

I replied, again:

I’m sorry I didn’t check in more. 

But let’s be real—did we even talk after Ramadan 2016?

Suddenly I'm the villain in her mental courtroom, being tried for ghosting a friendship that flatlined years ago.

Then came the cherry on top:

“I could expose you.”

Right. 

Because that’s what friends do—hold nuclear bombs of secrets and threaten to launch when feelings get bruised.

To that I said:

Go ahead. 

If that’s what brings you peace, detonate away. 

Your secrets? 

Still safe with me. 

Always.

Friendship, I thought, was about showing up—not showing off receipts.

Thanks for being there during my worst.

But let’s not pretend this is a friendship anymore.

Friends don’t threaten each other with emotional blackmail and character assassination.

They don’t weaponize the past.

They don’t twist timelines to play victim in their own edited documentaries.

And then she said:

“I didn’t give you an ultimatum. I was just explaining.”

Right. 

Like saying “jump” and calling it “a suggestion.”

She demanded:

“If your post wasn’t about me, why did you post it?”

Sis. Because it’s my Instagram, not your diary.

When she brought up how my reaction to her pregnancy years ago was “flat,”

I literally couldn’t remember the moment.

Apparently, she did.

Apparently, I erased the chat (spoiler: I didn’t).

But hey, selective memory is a friend’s best defense when they need to win an argument built on nostalgia and accusations.

So yeah.

That was our longest conversation in years.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a reconnection—it was a performance.

A dramatic reenactment of her pain, starring me as the villain I never auditioned to play.

If after all this, she still thinks I’d ever post just to hurt her— Then clearly, she never knew me at all.

And honestly? 

That’s the saddest part of all.

How

Tell me—
how do you forgive someone who spits thunder in your face then expects you to dance in the rain?

Tell me—
how do you erase a memory when it keeps autographing your soul in permanent ink? 

Tell me—
how do you respond to “I’m sorry” when it arrives late, after the damage has settled in like unwelcome furniture?

How do you forget the look in their eyes when they broke you— and meant it?

Tell me, how do I let go of this quiet rage, the kind that simmers politely,
smiles in daylight, and screams behind closed ribs?

Why should I forgive?

So you can sleep better?

So I can play pretend with a heart still bruised?

Honestly, I don’t know the etiquette for emotional hit-and-runs.

But I do know this:

I need time.

Not to forgive you— but to forgive myself for letting your words sink in so deep.

Maybe— in a parallel universe, you’ll earn back the version of me
that believed in you.

But here, in this story, you lost something far rarer than my love.

You lost my silence.

You lost the soft version of me that would’ve still reached for your hand
after the storm.

It’s not me.

It’s just you.

And maybe that’s the real tragedy.

Or maybe it’s the beginning of something better.

Either way— I’ll be fine.

Eventually.

Forgiven but not forgotten

Have you lost your fucking damn mind queen Oslo.

After you storm out all of anger, hateful words and all. Now out of nowhere, you just call her and text on WhatsApp asking for forgiveness.

You expect her to forgive you that easily huh? Like that doomsday never happen 

Damn, you're so damn naïve and stupid sometimes.

You just can't accept that she will forgive you easily and take you back like before.

Don't worry, she will forgive your stupid rant, hateful words and everything but don't expect things will back to normal just like that 

Hope you're not forget those hateful words and rant you've send to my WhatsApp.

Don't worry, you're save since I didn't have any intention to show it to them.

Oh right, you're forgiven but I don't forget every single thing you've said to me 

Sorry to disappoint you, but you've lost my respect and love 

Another Doomsday

Astagfirullah…

So, the day I tiptoed around in prayers and nightmares finally knocked.

Mom and Dad—  as if life hadn’t already played its cruel tricks on them—
now had front-row seats to another episode of “what else could possibly go wrong?”

Dad, with his tired eyes and too-heavy heart, shouldn't have to deal with
the petty dramatics of a house not his own.

And Mom…
She already bore the shame of my divorce like a quiet bruise under her hijab— one she never spoke of, but I saw it in the way she blinked away questions at every wedding we attended.

Now this?

Now she has to meet her daughter-in-law's true colors— which, ironically, don’t match the pastels she wears.

Such a lovely girl, they said.

Such grace, such sweetness.

And today— she shattered plates like promises, screamed like it was a competition, threw words and objects without checking who they might hit.

Even the little guy just  watched in stunned silence— the kind of silence kids remember.

And me?

What did I do?

Nothing.

Just stood there.

Breathing.

Drowning in guilt for not shielding Mom from the fireworks disguised as marriage.

She even accused me— me—of whispering poison to Mom.

Sweetheart, if I wanted to poison her, you’d already be choking on apologies.

She blocked me on everything: Path, Facebook, Instagram— Oh no!

Whatever shall I do without her perfectly curated breakfasts and inspirational quotes?

(Spoiler: I’m fine.)

But let’s be honest.

Even if she blocked me from every pixel of her world— she can't block the truth.

Her husband is still my brother. 

No app can change blood.

Not even the premium version.

And someday, maybe when she’s scrolling through old memories,trying to filter regret, she’ll remember the way Mom looked at her with disappointment so quiet,it thundered.

Here’s the twist though— I’m not angry.

No.

I’m exhausted.

I’m done playing villain in a play I didn’t audition for.

Let her have the stage.

Let her monologue in flames.

I’ll be in the audience— clapping slowly. 

Smiling kindly.

Waiting for her to forget her lines.

Because eventually, the sweetest revenge is peace.

And I?

I’m already halfway there.

blood ain’t thicker than water

"Blood is thicker than water," they say.

Sure.

And poison is thicker than wine, too— but I wouldn’t pour it into my glass and call it a toast to family.

Whoever coined that phrase clearly never sat at a dinner table where silence was louder than screaming, where the smiles were sharp enough
to carve flesh from bone, and love wore the mask of obligation.

They say family sticks by you.

Mine sticks like thorns, mostly in my back.

Funny thing about blood— it clots.

It dries.

It vanishes the moment you’re no longer useful.

When you’re shining, when your life sparkles like fresh money, they come crawling out from their corners like moths to a chandelier.

Sugar in your voice, syrup on your name, arms wide open— but palms always facing up.

They’ll swear you’re “one of us.”

Until you’re not.

Until you trip, crack,bleed out.

And suddenly?

They vanish.

Not a phone call, not a knock, not a whisper.

Family, huh?

I used to think I was the broken one.

Too suspicious. 

Too cold.

Too… “complicated.”

But I’ve learned.

Oh, I’ve learned.

People show you who they are when you’re empty— when you have nothing left to give but your truth.

And most of them?

They want no part of that.

Because truth isn’t pretty.

It’s not gift-wrapped in gold.

It’s raw.

It’s hungry.

And it doesn’t flatter egos.

Still, here’s the twist— I’m not bitter.

Not anymore.

I’m better.

Because now I know that water can drown, but it can also cleanse.

And some strangers will hold your head above it longer than your blood ever tried to.

Now I build my family in the quiet spaces— with people who show up,
not because they have to,but because they choose to.

Not bound by blood, but tethered by truth.

And that, ironically,is thicker than anything I’ve ever bled for.