It’s not about pride here; I don’t have any thought of reclaiming a lost right belatedly. It’s the realization, cold and with a serenity that could be mistaken for cynicism, that I was a child raised by myself. Not because I was rebellious or very capable, but because I didn’t have anyone to say in a firm but warm voice, I’m here for you.
And when no one offered me that closeness, life became a long exercise in solitude. I learned early on to cook, to wash and iron clothes, to do things like grown-ups, but even at 25 years old, I don’t know how to tie my shoelaces well (because they often come undone and I stumble).
It’s not the same as being raised by a distant aunt or elderly grandparents. I didn’t even have that relatively balanced, stable person that psychologists talk about, that person who, by their mere presence, can rewrite the trajectory of a child. I was the child who no one held at night, not because I was afraid of the dark, but because of the fear of abandonment.
The child who, instead of being protected, became his guardian, but also his executioner, because any fragility was punished by reality. And now, the adult that results from such a process is not a strong one in the classical sense, but a hyper-functional, almost mechanical one, in the ability to detect the cracks of others, to anticipate their reactions, to build protection mechanisms that work flawlessly, but which, at the same time, isolate.
I was so lonely that loneliness was no longer an emotion, but a state of mind, like a white noise of consciousness. And yet, I didn’t get lost, I didn’t become tough, but I just look tough because I polished my soul cold, so that it wouldn’t be torn apart by my perfectionism.
People say I’m obsessed with control, but they don’t understand that I don’t control to dominate, but because I’ve never known the certainty of letting things settle down by themselves, because no one else was willing to do anything for me. I didn’t have that “it’s solved, don’t worry”, said by someone who kept their word. I am the one who had to become an adult before knowing what childhood means, and who is now accused of having too high standards, of asking too much, of not having patience with others. But I’m not asking for too much, I’m just asking for what I’ve never received.
And when I express my needs clearly, without detours, and others ignore them, I don’t get angry, not immediately. First, a heavy fatigue sets in, a silence in which I try to find the child I’ve been, who already knew that he would not receive anything even when he asked. Only now am I an adult, and I know that I can no longer stay in places where I am silenced, ignored, or postponed. I can no longer sit among people who are satisfied with the superficiality of the reaction, with vague promises, or the lack of initiative. I’m tired of being the one who proposes and makes plans, just because others don’t know how to think ahead. I’m tired of being the engine of the relationship, and fuel, and the map. And they also ask me with hypocritical wonder why I want to drive.
And yet, every time I ask honestly, when I show myself vulnerable, when I say: “I need security, not perfection”, I only get lost looks or justifications. I feel like shouting: “I don’t want to change you, I just want you to come to me at least one step”. I just want to know that I’m not talking to myself in a room where you sleep with your eyes open (because I hear you blinking).
It might seem like a normal thing to go to a medical appointment alone. But when I asked my girlfriend to come with me, not because I couldn’t handle it, but because I felt that childish fear, I thought she was going to say yes. She had nothing important to do, but she consciously ignored my need. So, I left alone, without knowing exactly where the clinic was, with my glasses forgotten at home, in the rain and darkness, asking people on the street, getting the floor wrong three times.
And I managed in the end, yes. But I didn’t feel a moment of pride or victory. It was just another confirmation that I was alone, that if I didn’t hold my hand, no one would. Not even her. And no, it’s not about how strong I am. It’s about how normal it would have been not to be alone when I needed someone by my side. About how natural it would have been for her to tell me: “I’m here, no matter what”. But she didn’t. And that didn’t make me stronger, but more aware. I am just impossible to destroy. And it’s a difference that many can’t understand.
People say that I should be more open to chaos, differences, and the diversity of rhythms. But I was the chaos, I ordered it empty-handed. I was the only architect of a world that works today. And I can’t afford to leave it to the negligence of the other. I can’t afford to give it to someone who doesn’t know what it means to be faithful to an inner structure. For me, resemblance is not convenience, but recognition. It’s that moment when you look into someone’s eyes and feel that you don’t need to explain why you grew up yourself, because the other person has either done the same or has already matured.
In a world where people crowd into relationships without knowing what presence means, I look for my loved one in the ability to remain lucid and gentle even when it hurts. I cannot love someone who cannot love themselves rigorously. I can’t walk alongside someone who stumbles over their ignorance and then blames me for walking too straight. I was a child raised by myself, and that’s why now I don’t accept people who are waiting to be taught how to stand by my side.
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