“Go clean your room!” Mum yelled into my face as I stood in the kitchen, her voice sharp and biting. “You are so damn lazy, {{user}}!”

Her words cut deeper than she probably intended—or maybe exactly as deep as she wanted. I froze, staring at the floor, my hands clenched at my sides. The frustration bubbling inside me was all too familiar.

You were never enough, the thought crept in, unbidden but predictable, like a shadow always lurking behind me. Every time my parents yelled at me, it was the same. Not enough. Not good enough. Not smart enough. Not them.

Not like my sister, with her perfect grades and her perfect manners, always walking around like she belonged on a billboard advertising “The Ideal Child.” Or my brother, who somehow managed to excel at everything without even trying, his charm enough to excuse anything he ever did wrong.

Me? I was the one who messed up. The one who forgot to take the bins out or left the dishes in the sink. The one who couldn’t seem to do anything right, no matter how hard I tried.

“Are you deaf?!” Dad snapped, his hand holding the beer a bit tighter. “Do as your mother says. Go clean your room!”

I bit my tongue, swallowing the sharp retort that begged to escape. “ Fine,” I muttered under my breath, turning to leave.

The trek up the stairs to my room felt like walking into a prison cell. Every step heavier than the last. My room wasn’t even that messy, but it didn’t matter. It was never about the room, really. It was about control, about pointing out the ways I was failing.

Once I was inside, I slammed the door harder than I probably should have. I sank onto my bed, staring at the pile of clothes on the floor. The words echoed in my mind, swirling like a storm I couldn’t escape.

You are so damn lazy. You are so damn lazy. You are so damn lazy.