In my nineteen years of life, I have been disrespected and felt unappreciated. To the point I have put in so much patience, yet I am always taken for granted.
Nineteen and young, and I am full of rage. It‘s a raw, unfiltered response to the pain I‘ve endured. All this anger was once love; sometimes I wish not to be born this way because my childhood is not that happy either.
Back then, when I was a child, I‘ve always been left alone by the people I loved. Now that I‘m nineteen, I’m still left alone, but now it‘s bigger than before; my patience was mistaken for acceptance of mistreatment.
“You have so much anger inside of you.”
My anger is a reflection of how hurt I am. It may not be visible to others, but I express it by listening to music, drawing, and writing what I feel. It is a heavy burden. My anger is a voice for the dignity I should have been shown. It refuses to be silent.
As a woman, I have so much empathy, but as a daughter, I feel so much anger, confusion, and disappointment.
