The noose around my neck was my mothers abuse.

We walked on sharp shards of crystal glass called her "rage". No one knew when the physical blow would come for waking her up from a nap or not wanting to do homework.

I walk into rooms with a finely tuned system, ready to detect any threat that might come my way. Hyper vigilance. A trauma response. Sometimes a kind look is mockery to me, sometimes contempt is feedback, sometimes they laugh at me other times they judge me.

The anxiety of being me. But then who am I?

Am I the good daughter? Or am I not?

Is my identity still confined and defined by this one role?