cosmojivi

[cosmojivi]

Becoming who I needed

As a son, I often wondered what it feels like to be treated right. I know there’s no such thing as perfect parents or a perfect family but I hoped for something better than what I’ve experienced my entire life.

I grew up in a house where everything was a mess. There was no strong foundation, only cracks built on pain, silence, and unresolved anger. Love and respect were missing, like things we were supposed to earn but never really had.

Everyone was too consumed by their own pain and suffering to notice anyone else’s. And ego played a huge role in the kind of parenting my sister and I experienced. It wasn’t guidance. It wasn’t protection. It was survival.

Dad was an alcoholic and abusive. He also used illegal drugs. He was controlling, reckless “dangerous”. I saw him as a demon in our home.

Mom suffered through all of it. And because of that, she became someone I wish she didn’t have to be, someone hardened by pain, someone I barely recognized as the mother I needed.

I experienced every form of abuse: physical, emotional, and mental. And growing up, I carried the weight of all of it, every single day.

Even as a child, they would kick me out of the house again and again. I was just a kid, and I still don’t understand why they did that to me. I was never given a reason, never offered comfort. Just pushed away as if I didn’t belong. I remember the fear, the confusion, the cold nights wondering what I had done wrong.

At a young age, I witnessed what no child should ever see. I felt what no child should ever feel.

Everything you can imagine about how brutal physical abuse can be. I lived through it.

I would hide my bruises, not just the ones on my body, but the ones no one could see the ones that lived in my mind and heart.

I was told to keep quiet. I was told to be strong. But all I ever felt was broken.

As a son, I was constantly invalidated and neglected. I didn’t feel like I mattered. I didn’t feel like I belonged. I was made to feel like a burden, not a blessing. And all I ever wanted… was to be loved, to be safe, to be seen.

I started showing up for myself. I became the parent I never had. I began to teach myself how to love in the way I always longed for—gently, patiently, with kindness.

I didn’t know what I was doing at first. But I knew what love shouldn’t feel like. So I tried to do the opposite. I tried to speak to myself with softness instead of shame. I tried to comfort the broken parts of me instead of hiding them away. I tried to hold space for my emotions, because no one else ever did.

I thought maybe if I showed love the right way, they would eventually learn to love me back in the same way. That if I gave them the version of love I never received, they would finally see me. Understand me. Love me.

But they never did.

No matter how much love I tried to give, no matter how much I hoped they would change but they didn’t. I waited for the right time to save myself.

After I finished high school, I made the hardest but most necessary decision of my life…

I left.

I chose to go to college in the city not just for education, but for freedom. It wasn’t just about chasing dreams. It was about escaping a house that never felt like home. I needed distance. I needed peace. I needed to breathe without fear.

So I walked away. Away from the people who kept hurting me. Away from the place where I was never seen, never heard, never safe.

Living independently wasn’t easy. But it was the first time I started to feel a sense of control over my own life. I began to rebuild myself not from scratch, but from all the broken pieces I carried with me.

I learned to define love on my own. Not from what I was given, but from everything I lacked. I took the pain, the rejection, the loneliness, and slowly, I shaped it into something meaningful. I told myself: love shouldn’t hurt, love shouldn’t punish, love shouldn’t silence. So I began building my own values. Rooted in kindness, in patience, in understanding.

I learned to treat people the way I wished I had been treated. I became more careful with words, more mindful of pain, more willing to listen.

Because I knew what it was like to not be heard.

And over time, I learned to accept what happened. Not because it was okay. Not because it made sense. But because holding onto the hurt would only keep me tied to it.

I chose forgiveness. Not for them but for myself.

So I could finally breathe without bitterness. So I could begin to heal, to grow, to live without carrying their wounds as my own forever.

So this is my trauma. It will never completely go away. It lives with me—in the quiet moments, in the sudden triggers, in the wounds that healed but still ache.

But I’ve come to accept that it’s a part of me. Not something to be ashamed of, not something to hide.

This trauma shaped me. It defined the hardest parts of my story, but it also molded the strongest parts of who I am now. The compassion I give, the patience I hold, the strength I carry. They were born from the pain I never asked for.

I’m not just a product of what happened to me. I am who I chose to become in spite of it.

[cosmojivi]

Introduction

Hi, I’m Jayvee. :) This blog is about my personal journey. I’ve been struggling for most of my life, and some posts may be inappropriate or triggering, as they deal with mental health issues and painful experiences from my past. Still, these are also stories of survival—of finding a way out of the darkest days. I’m still searching for my purpose and trying to define what this life means to me. As I do my best each day, I hope that sharing my emotions and thoughts here will help me heal, and maybe help someone else, too.