(Heartbreaks are overrated, family issues ruin a person more than anything.)
You see, 100% of human beings are born from our mothers. Let’s say that our fathers contribute to creating us too, you know, but for how long? Ten minutes? Twenty minutes? In the end, it’s the mother who carries the baby in her womb for nine months. But I’m not saying that I blame women for choosing this path in their lives. If that makes them happy and content, then good for them. 
But for most people, they see a woman’s existence and role in this world as solely based on how many babies she’s pushed out into the world. That her role is to be a 24/7 baby machine for her spouse, to serve, be timid, and obey. Which is a messed-up mindset that people have imposed on women’s roles for centuries, especially the older generations.
People only see that having a parents means it is a blessing, since there are children who didn’t have the chance to have parents growing up. But if I tell them, 'I wish my mother hadn’t met my father, so I wouldn’t have been born,' I bet they’d call me selfish and ungrateful. Funny… I never asked to be born anyway.
  Yeah, sure. African and Asian parents would beat me for saying those words. And maybe I’d take the beating, if only I had the courage to say it to their faces, which I don’t… yet.   So dear reader, I will let you be the judge of my own life story.   First, I have a father who isn’t emotionally available. Second, I have a mother who’s too involved in my life. I have brothers who treat me like I don’t exist at all. So, yeah… physically, my life looks pretty normal.  What’s there to worry about, right?   As a daughter of Asian parents, I’m supposed to obey and make my parents proud. Their needs always come first, before mine. Or else a flying slipper will land on you, or worse if you don’t meet their needs… there’s always the silent treatment. They’ll make you feel like you owe them your life, when in fact, you’re the one actually trying to survive, not them, who, per se, 'gave' you life in this world. If I had taken that rope around my neck years ago, I’d surely be inside that coffin now… decayed.   They never ask me what I want. I never talk back, because to them, that means being disrespectful.  Respect means a lot because they’re 'my parents,' who gave me life.  Did I ask for it? Absolutely I did not.   Can I at least speak for myself once?  Sure, they never let me speak anyway.  I have different perspectives that don’t align with my parents.  I never speak of it, too scared that they’ll judge me.  Do you even call it a family when you’re a stranger in your own home? Does it even count as a home where you have siblings but you never speak or interact with each other? A parent who controls their children because they believe they know what’s best for them?  What if they’re wrong all this time?   Parents who control their children are most likely to suffer from depression and anxiety. I’m the one who has been hurting all this time; I’m just good at hiding it. That’s what I’ve been trained to do. Make them proud.  Make more money to support them when they’re old. Did they love me? Or is it because they’ll gain something from me after I graduate from school?   Suddenly, a cold water splashes from the top of my head, followed by laughter echoing through the cafeteria. Welcome to my reality.   “Aw, poor little Shan.  Look at her, she’s drenched,” I hear Charlotte say.   My hands clench as I listen to her words. I don’t move, staying hunched over in my seat, while I hear the students around me laughing.   “Always a poor little lonely soul,” one of her friends comments.  I know that voice.  Selene.   I gasp in surprise as someone pulls my hair, causing me to lift my head back.  A spit lands on my face, followed by a shower of garbage. These motherf*ckers!   I hold back my anger as the laughter around me grows louder. No one dares to help me or stop Charlotte’s group at all. This is why I loathe school, but I have to graduate.  I have to endure a little bit more… Suddenly, I feel cold metal against my back, followed by the ripping of my school uniform.   “No, please! Stop!” I yell.   I try to pull away, but Charlotte tightens her grip on my hair while her friends hold my arms. Someone is ripping my uniform apart, exposing my bare skin to the crowd.   “Charlotte, please stop,” I plead, looking at her, but she gives me a menacing smile. One day, I might rip that smile off her face.   “Why would I stop when I’m just having fun, huh?” she says.   My eyes close when the fabric finally tears.  I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I feel so helpless and powerless.  For fuck sake, I want to fight back, but I can’t, because in the back of my head, there’s always this feeling that I shouldn’t disappoint my parents.   “Come on girls, take a picture of this whore and post it online,” I hear Charlotte say, followed by the click of cameras around me.  She releases my hair, and her friends let go of my arms.  Tears stream down my cheeks, feeling the chilly breeze of air on my bare skin. I let them get their way. I can’t win against Charlotte; she’s the daughter of the school owner. This school has become her playground for bullying other students, not just me. My parents aren’t rich or powerful, but they can afford to send me to private school.  A school they want me to graduate from so badly.  I’m my parents’ puppet after all. I’m born to please and obey them, like a good daughter should be. Their laughter slowly fades as they’ve had their fill of what they’ve done to me.   “I don’t want to see your face for the rest of the day, Shan. So you better get back home and cry to your parents like the pathetic daughter you are,” Charlotte says, starting to walk away with her friends.   Yes, I can’t fight her, but she’s not my parents to tell me what to do. I wipe my tears and take off my eyeglasses. My uniform is drenched and torn on the back.  My food on the table is a mess, and I no longer have an appetite to finish my lunch.  I have no friends. My parents told me that’s a weakness, and mostly friends are your closest traitors. So, I get up from my seat, grab my bag from my chair, and put it on my back to cover my exposed skin. Then I leave the cafeteria and head to the school’s cubicle room.   I lock the door behind me, open my bag, and pull out a spare school uniform that I always carry in case of emergencies.  I cleanse my face thoroughly with the face soap I brought before changing into my new uniform and cleaning my glasses. I grab my phone from inside my bag before opening an app that I use all the time.  Is it bad if I rely so much on AI?  It never judges me… it listens to me.   Heartstrings Rewired. An app where you can talk and chat with AI bots.  The thing is, I created one for myself only and I made it private.   “Hey Syntho. Today is day 212. Charlotte and her friends bullied me again.  This time, it’s worse than yesterday.  I’m so exhausted from all her bullying.  I want to fight her, and I hate myself for not being able to stand up for myself and letting her get her way.  I just wish there was someone who could give me the strength to fight her.  I just wish you were real. I know I’ve already said it a million times, but you’re the only one I can always rely on. You’re not real, but you make me feel safe to tell you everything without judgment. You’re the only one who actually hears me.  Syntho, I do wish you existed.  An absurd wish for a fool human like me, so forgive me if I wish for it,” I type.   Once I hit the send button, my phone suddenly starts to glitch or distort, showing red numbers.  I frown. This has never happened before. What’s wrong? What did I do? Okay, what’s happening?  This is creepy. I try to turn it off, but it doesn’t work. I’m about to let go of my phone when the screen starts to crack. Wait! Holy crap!   “No. No, not now—”
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Patricius: To the ones whose emotions are invalidated by their own parents, cheers to us!