I’m Not the Problem, Am I?:

There was no warning. There never was. Just a loud bang. A slammed door. Raised voices. Accusations that scattered like shattered glass across the floor—cutting, sharp, impossible to ignore. And then came my name. "Kasalanan mo ‘to." I stood frozen in the hallway, barely breathing. I hadn’t said anything. I hadn’t done anything. I had just come home from school, walked quietly through the front door, and headed straight to my room. But somehow, my silence, my existence, was enough to cause a storm. They weren’t even fighting about me at first. I had overheard bits and pieces—bills unpaid, chores forgotten, the usual stress of daily life. But like always, the argument shifted. Suddenly, everything was my fault. “Your sister is always hiding in her room, not helping with anything.” “She doesn't even care about this family.” “No wonder things are falling apart—look at her!” They spoke as if I wasn’t standing ten steps away. As if I couldn’t hear every word slicing through me like a dull, rusted knife. As if I didn’t exist—except when they needed someone to blame. My mother’s voice was cold, biting. My father didn’t yell, but his silence was worse. He just sat there, letting it all happen. Not defending me. Not once. The worst part? I had done nothing wrong. But that didn’t matter. In this house, it never did. --- I closed my door softly, carefully. No one liked it when I made noise. Even the smallest sound—a dropped spoon, a creaking floorboard—became fuel for their fury. “Ang ingay mo!” they’d say. “Walang respeto.” I stood by the door for a moment, pressing my back against it as if it could protect me from everything beyond it. My heart thudded against my chest like it was trying to escape. I couldn’t cry. Not yet. If I cried, they’d hear. And if they heard, they’d say I was being dramatic. So I swallowed it down. The lump in my throat. The sting in my eyes. The shaking in my hands. I was good at that now. Swallowing things whole—anger, sadness, fear. Guilt I didn’t even earn. I moved like a ghost through my own room. Familiar. Quiet. Forgotten. I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the wall. Just stared. Time passed. I wasn’t sure how much. Minutes? Hours? All I knew was that the light outside was starting to dim, and my room was wrapped in the soft, gray glow of early evening. That’s when the weight came. The invisible one. The one that sat on my chest, pressing down until it hurt to breathe. I pulled my knees to my chest, resting my chin there. I used to fight back. Used to yell. Used to scream, “It’s not fair!” Used to believe that if I just explained myself enough, if I just said the right thing, they’d stop blaming me. That they’d finally understand I wasn’t the problem. But they never did. And eventually… I stopped trying. Because what was the point of fighting battles that were already lost? --- I picked up my phone. One unread message. > “Hey, are you okay?” I stared at the words for a long time. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. Should I say yes? Should I lie? Or should I say, “No. I’m not. I’m tired. I’m lonely. I feel like I don’t belong in my own home. I’m being blamed for things I didn’t do. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Or maybe there’s nothing wrong and I’ve just been convinced there is.” But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I typed: > “I’m fine.” And I hated myself for it. --- Dinner came and went. I didn’t go out. No one called me anyway. That’s how it always was—ignored when convenient, blamed when needed. I listened as laughter echoed from the dining room. My brother’s jokes. My mom’s voice, warmer now. They were fine. They had each other. I was the stranger in the house. The black hole they threw their problems into. And yet, I still found myself wondering, Is it me? Am I really that hard to love? I lay down in bed and closed my eyes. Not because I was sleepy. I just didn’t want to exist for a while. And in the darkness, a single thought kept echoing in my mind: “I’m not the problem… am I?” But the silence never answered back.