ICWIB

(2024) I’ve been keeping this inside my chest for a long time; I have told my partner about how and what I felt before. Sometimes, or most of the time, I feel the urge to just shout or stab myself in the chest (but holy Smirnoff, I will not physically stab myself) whenever I think about my upbringing as a child. I wish my older self was there when my “kid self” needed her mother or father. I wish I could just hug her so tightly and take her with me from right then and there. I am writing this because I am feeling so overwhelmed right now, and I do not want to overwhelm others around me by childhood trauma dumping on them. So here it goes. 1, 2, 3.

I love my maternal grandmother, I really do. To me, she’s everything. She has raised me since I was three. She tried her best to give me everything while my mother was overseas working and studying, even if my grandmother didn’t know how to explain things very well like a PhD graduate from a top-tier university. I love her even though she didn’t finish high school, and even if she had less than the rest of her sisters. To me, she’s everything. Even now, I love her, and I hope she lives a long and happy life.

As you may not know, I grew up in a large household. Eight people lived in that house, including me. Mind you, that house only consisted of one kitchen, one living room, two bathrooms, one tiny balcony, an upstairs area (which was used for sleeping), and one spare room (which was used for sleeping as well). Some may call it a happy home. For me, it wasn’t. I had everything, but not everything. I clearly remember when my oldest aunt would send LBC packages to my grandmother’s house. Everyone went crazy for the clothes, chocolates, canned foods, and other items that hoarders would keep. Seeing those things as a kid makes me realize now how lucky I was—how Mum and my stepfather (a good father figure) worked so hard to give me everything, from a Nintendo to items that made all the neighborhood kids jealous.

Even though I had those things, there are memories that have scarred me to this day. I wish to fully recover and become a healthy adult (and I am becoming one), so I can raise my own kids well. No child should experience what I experienced or see what I saw through my younger eyes. I am not blaming anyone, nor am I pitying myself. But having your childhood piggy bank stolen after saving allowance by skipping school lunches (kept in my grandmother’s wardrobe behind a small, light-duty padlock) and being dismissed whenever you asked valid questions is scarring enough. I wanted to know the truth about everything that happened.

“Why is there a man visiting me? Who exactly are my parents? Where are Mum and Dad? Why do you always have to come with me to parent-teacher meetings, Grandma? Kids are making fun of me—where’s my dad?” Those are the words I remember asking my grandmother when I lived with her. She kept dismissing me. Questions asked, ignored. I was just a kid; I get that children don’t understand family drama. But I remember those moments and how it felt to be dismissed. I felt isolated. My grades were slipping, and my grandma was in denial about the fact that I needed to get out of that house. I asked for help, but she couldn’t help. I asked my cousins and others in the house, but received almost no support. Everyone seemed to be using one another for their own benefit without caring about who helped them. It felt like everyone just wanted money from the providers working their arses off in Australia—my mum and oldest aunt. There was constant fighting and arguing; small things turned into massive blowouts. It was an extremely toxic environment. And the man who kept visiting me when I was little? He truly loved me. Why make such a big issue out of him? He just wanted to visit me and bring me to his home—a quiet, comfortable place near the city center.

(2024) My estranged father and I started talking last year. I am grateful that he is still alive and well. I shared my childhood experiences with him; I don’t know what he genuinely felt hearing it, but I felt relief, lightness, and sadness all at once. I felt like crying. He encouraged me to share everything with him and promised to be there for me. His words were kind and caring, and he said he was deeply sorry for everything.

(Present – 2026) I was 24 when I traveled to the Philippines to meet my father in person. The moment I stepped inside his home, I felt at ease. It had been so long since we lost touch. It was quiet, and the atmosphere was warm. I felt at home; I felt safe. It was completely different from where I grew up. Perhaps the man who always rooted for me when I was small deserved to raise me.

(2026) Looking back now, I understand why I turned out the way I did, and this part of my journal deserves to be shared. I am sharing it to raise awareness about toxic and dysfunctional households.

From the author: You are loved. You are strong. You can do this. Keep moving forward.

Alright! That’s it from me!