"My life has been a life of degrade; many people would say that the key to a healthy mentality is to accept yourself. Now, as I am laying in this tightly-closed and monitored room, I keep wondering...what would have happened if I chose a different route?"
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I was born into an unremarkable family. My father, a veteran, seemed to carry an invisible burden on his shoulders, though he rarely spoke of it. My mother, warm but stern, abandoned her dreams to become a housewife in our little household.
And me? Kaleb, the second-born. The middle child. The unnecessary one. Neither the pride of the firstborn nor the darling of the youngest. I wasn't ignored, not really—but the love I received felt impersonal, as though it was given out of obligation, not affection. Still, I told myself it was enough.
Children are masters of self-delusion.
I recall my childhood with startling clarity—sharp fragments of memory that pierce through the fog of my mind. My seventh birthday, for instance. A chocolate cake with white icing, its sweetness almost cloying. A bright red cherry sat atop the frosting, gleaming like a lie. I bit into it, not knowing it was plastic, and choked. My siblings laughed, my parents panicked, and I cried.
That was the first time I learned: smiles can hurt more than frowns.
My parents were overprotective, though I didn't understand why at the time. I wasn't allowed to wander, to explore. My world was confined to the walls of our home, the corridors of my school, and the rare excursions deemed "necessary." They said it was for our safety, but it always felt like fear disguised as love.
And so my childhood passed, a blur of small humiliations and hollow reassurances. I told myself it was fine. I had no reason to complain. But then, one day, the carefully constructed facade of my life began to crack.
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The decision to send me to school came abruptly. For years, I had been homeschooled, shielded from the outside world. And then, without warning, my parents announced it was time for me to "grow up."
I didn't want to go. I was terrified.
That first morning, as we drove to the school, I sat in the backseat, staring out the window. The sky was a deep, endless blue, fractured by streaks of soft orange from the rising sun. It was beautiful, but I couldn't enjoy it. My reflection in the glass held my attention—a pale, trembling boy with wide eyes and a clenched jaw.
"Kaleb," my mother said sharply, her voice slicing through my thoughts. "When you get there, do as the teacher says. Don't embarrass us."
Her words were a hammer, pounding my already fragile nerves. I felt a sharp chill run through me, my fingers trembling slightly.
"Dad," I murmured, barely audible. "Can you turn down the AC?"
"The AC isn't on," he replied, his voice dry and indifferent.
And just like that, silence filled the car.
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The school was overwhelming—too bright, too loud, too unfamiliar. I was ushered into the classroom, where the teacher greeted me with a smile that felt too sharp to be genuine.
"Introduce yourself," she said, her voice soft but insistent.
I froze.
"I…"
I had rehearsed this moment in my head, over and over. The words had flowed so easily then. But now, standing before a sea of expectant faces, my throat felt like it was closing...like there was a huge black orb stuck in my voice.
"I…"
Nothing came out.
The laughter began softly, rippling through the classroom like a cruel wave. Even the teacher chuckled, a quiet, dismissive sound that stung worse than any insult.
"Take your seat," she said finally, her tone more irritated than kind.
I obeyed, keeping my head down, my cheeks burning. But she wasn't finished.
"There's no need to be so nervous," she said, addressing the class but clearly speaking to me. "You're a boy. You should be brave."
Her words hung in the air, sharp and cutting.
"Stop acting like a girl," she added with a laugh, as if it were a harmless joke.
I stared at my desk, my hands clenched into fists beneath it. I wanted to shout, I know! Stop talking! But I didn't. I couldn't. it felt as if there was a lump in my throat that kept me from saying anything just like how I am with my family.
Her lecture went on for what felt like hours, each word driving me deeper into myself. By the time she finished, I was nothing more than a husk, hollowed out and trembling.
I tried to focus and calm myself, but my body wouldn't listen. My fingers were freezing, no matter how hard I clenched them into fists. It wasn't even that cold in the room, but it felt like ice was seeping into my skin.
I couldn't stop shivering, even though I knew there was no reason to. I told myself it wasn't that serious, that I was just nervous, but the cold kept biting at me, sharper with every second that passed.
It didn't make sense. I wasn't in danger. Nothing was wrong. But still, the cold wrapped around me, refusing to let go.
I squeezed my eyes shut, telling myself again, "I'm fine."
this was the first lie that I remember telling myself.