The Continuous Burning Home

“When you’re born in a burning house. You think the whole world is on fire. But it’s not.”

Richard Kadrey 

I remember the first time I realized I had depression. I came home from school that day and took my shoes off and set my backpack down. I immediately put on my pajamas and laid in bed. I remember staring up and noticing the pointy texture of my tiny bedroom ceiling. I remember staring at that ceiling until the sun went down and I could no longer see the pointy texture. 


I’d always arrive home before my family members. 

I would hate the days I’d come home and be alone with another man that my mom had for the month. I remember I would walk silently to my room and always lock my door. 


As my mother would arrive home, it was often heard by yelling or an argument that would turn brutal. I’d eventually hear a bedroom door slam shut. Usually, it was about unfinished dishes that I had forgotten because my depression was so severe I would never leave my bed. It would result in her telling me she wants me to move out or that I am ungrateful and not a good child. 

It’s okay, just pick up the pieces one more time. 

You can move away from this reality soon. 

Just one more time to pick up the pieces. 


Inside those burning walls with my mother, you’d hear crying, anger, with so much hatred. 

Everything is my fault. 

Just forgive and forget, Okay? 

One more time. 


But How. 


But How. 


But how many times do I forgive this? 


I developed anxiety very quickly as a child. My mother always told me I was incredibly shy and quiet. I remember waking up terrified of going to school because I’d have to face the people who shamed my hair, eyebrows, hairy arms, or my clothes because my family was poor. 

It’s okay just one more day, sweetie. 

You got this. 


Being the brunette of all my siblings was rough. I was never called beautiful. I had messy curly hair that was never tamed. Like ever. My sisters on the other hand had beautiful blonde straight hair. “You’re so beautiful with your blonde hair”.

I wanted to be beautiful so badly. 

“Go get your eyebrows waxed.” 

“You’re a size 5? At your age I was a size 0”.

And my favorite was always “Why are you wearing that slutty dress? Stop asking for attention and be a young lady. Men do not like that” as her husband stared at my legs. 

The smoke from the flames started getting into my lungs at this point.

It’s okay, one more day. 

You got this. 



I remember the exact moment I wanted to commit suicide. I came home from school and was home alone. I was beyond numb from the suffocating world around me. The day before I watched my mother attempt to kill herself. I did not feel anything. I was not scared to lose my mother. I wished anyone on Earth was my mother at this point. I would pray to God every night for another mother. I prayed for a mother who didn’t see me as her competition when I hit puberty. 

Having a mother like mine was like not having one in this lifetime. 

No one to tell me it’s okay and help me battle my fears.

Only it is me in the battlefield of my own mental drownings. 

But the home being installed with propane and the fire burning so bright.

It blurred my vision while I tried to get out in one piece. 

But don’t your clothes still carry the smell of the burning fire?


My suicidal thoughts turned into a need instead of a want. I pulled out pills and poured a bunch of them into my small hands. I close my eyes tightly and long for the feeling of my heart to stop pumping blood into my veins. To finally take my last shaky breath as my body stops working. To finally not think about how I am not beautiful enough, to not hear my mother say she hates me, or to not have my mother tell me I am nothing without her, or seeing “trusted” family members look me up and down as soon as I became a teenager, or hearing my dad say he wishes I turned out differently and that he wanted a son instead of me. I wanted to fall into nothingness and be forgotten. 


I put the pills back into the bottle one by one hoping I’d change my mind. 


Why won’t anyone help me? Can you not see I’m suffering? 


The fire is starting to burn me. 

And here I am with all of the scars you gave me. 

They will never heal because I am still in those burning walls trying to find my way out. 

It’s okay, sweetie.  

One more day, alright?

One more….

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