The power of me: I Am CUPIDELLA 💘

My name is Cupidella, but people rarely say the whole thing. Most just call me “Cee”—shorter, sweeter, easier to swallow. Like love. But love’s never been sweet for me. If anything, it’s been a battlefield. One I was born into, raised by, and left bruised because of. I come from a house full of noise. Eight of us under one roof. Two parents, six kids. The kind of family people romanticize from a distance and pity up close. My mother, Megan, is all sharp cheekbones and sharp words. Beautiful in the kind of way that could stop traffic and she knew it. She used to be a dreamer, or so I heard from old photos and whispers from my older brothers. But by the time I came along, the dream had rotted into resentment. I could feel it in her stare, like I reminded her of everything she lost. Or maybe everything she never got to be. My father, Darren, was more of a shadow than a man. There, but not really. His love was conditional. His silence was a weapon. He never hit us, but sometimes his absence hit harder than a slap ever could. Then there were my brothers—Tyler, Seth, Marcus, and Jude. Tyler and Seth are the eldest and the ones who made me feel like I was worth something. Tyler called me “Sunflower.” Seth taught me how to throw a punch when a boy in seventh grade pulled my hair and called me “weird.” They protected me when they could. Loved me out loud. The younger two—Marcus and Jude—were just... there. Following the chaos. Watching, absorbing. Existing. And then Isabel. Isabel was the oldest girl. The one who used to braid my hair, tie ribbons too tight, and sneak candy into my pillowcase. But something changed around the time I turned thirteen. She started moving like the world owed her something—and hated me for having it first. I think it started when people began noticing me. Complimenting my voice. My essays. My eyes. “You think you're better than me because people like you more?” she hissed one day while we were folding laundry. “No,” I whispered. But maybe I did. Not in an arrogant way—more like, maybe I needed to feel like I mattered. That was the thing in our house. You had to fight to be seen. To be heard. To be loved. Except for Claire. Claire is my little sister. The baby of the family. She’s sunshine in a denim jacket. Blonde curls, freckled cheeks, a laugh that could revive the dead. Loving Claire is like breathing. Natural. Easy. She’s the only one who sees me—really sees me—even when I try to disappear. We shared a room until I moved out at twenty-one. I remember how she’d curl up next to me after nightmares and whisper, “You’re my favorite person, Cee.” I never told her, but she was mine too. Our house had more walls than doors. More silence than songs. Meals were eaten quickly. Prayers said like rituals. Smiles offered like currency. We weren’t poor. Not in the financial sense. But emotionally? Spiritually? We were bankrupt. The kind of family that dressed up for church and tore each other apart in the parking lot. That posted birthday pictures with captions like “Family over everything,” right after a week of not speaking. And I was caught in the middle of it all—too sensitive for their chaos, too strong to crumble completely. I learned early how to fold myself small. How to say “I’m fine” without choking. How to look in the mirror and convince myself I wasn’t fading. Because in that house, the loudest person won. And I never wanted to win—I just wanted to be okay. So I wrote. Scribbled thoughts on napkins, receipts, the backs of school notebooks. I wrote until my hands cramped. Until my pain made sense. Until my mind found a quiet the house never offered. That’s probably the only reason I survived it. Writing gave me wings. Even when I didn’t know where to fly. And one day, I’d need those wings more than ever.