I watched my brother be praised
for things I was scolded for.
I watched him succeed
and no one questioned how.
No one picked it apart.
No one asked what was wrong with him
for managing to do well.
But me?
Every achievement came with a condition.
A pause.
An asterisk.
“Well… considering your mental health.”
“Well… given everything you struggle with.”
As if success only counts
when you don’t suffer.
As if pain disqualifies effort.
In this family, it was
you get what you work for.
But no one counted
how hard I worked
just to stay alive.
They called his wins discipline.
They called mine luck.
Or weakness dressed up as progress.
I didn’t fit the mould.
I didn’t break down neatly.
I didn’t heal quietly.
So my success made them uncomfortable.
Because it proved something they didn’t want to see:
that you can work yourself to the bone
and still struggle.
I wasn’t less deserving.
I was just hurting
in a way they refused to understand.