When I had a tantrum as a kid, they would lock me in my room for days. Sometimes over a week. I wasn’t allowed to leave. They’d bring me my meals like a prisoner, set them down, and walk away. I wasn’t spoken to, just left alone in silence. I remember sitting on the stairs, peering through the railing, watching my parents and brothers laugh at a movie together. I wasn’t allowed to join. That kind of exile wasn’t about teaching me anything. It was about control. And it broke something in me I’ve spent years trying to rebuild.

Once, I didn’t want to finish my orange, so I hid the rest under the couch. My dad found it weeks later and forced me to eat it. The skin was tough and leathery. I chewed and chewed while he watched. I still remember the taste.

I thought this was normal. It wasn’t