At my youngest, I remember being incredibly dramatic. I loved to listen to music like Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet and 'inhabit' it. It was like no one else existed and I would feel all of it, dancing, until I collapsed to the floor, weeping.
I loved to live in big emotions. The way I expressed those was through dance, music, acting. My parents didn't encourage any of these things- being overly emotional was seen as a bad thing, so I escaped into books and learned to hide my feelings. It's like my feelings became my own little secret that I shared with no one else, and I was ashamed when I did, when I couldn't contain them. I became the child who shares nothing and does everything right so no one thinks to ask whether they're ok, whether this is what they want. Secretly, I thought I was some sort of genius, that I should be a world class ballerina or a musical prodigy. I knew I had the potential within me, because I had the emotion and love for it- and that if I were encouraged, if my life circumstances were different, it would happen. It was like I was biding my time, waiting for someone to unlock the key and lead me to this other world where I was these things, but time progressed and those opportunities became fainter and more unrealistic.
It wasn't until I got older that I realized how angry I was with my parents about this, and how I have done self sabotaging things to punish them for it. I want them to see how they fucked me up, how they ruined me. It's been really hard to forgive them, and it's even harder to let go of the masochism because, ultimately, I know it's more my fault than it is theirs. If I had been stronger, more bold, I could have been those things.