WHO I WANT TO BE

 This one is a little different

My name is Charisma. I am 20 years old; I will be 21 in two weeks. I was born in Ireland, but my parents emigrated from Nigeria almost 30 years old. I have an okay relationship with my father. I have three close friends. I work as a customer service agent. and have for two years. I live a sedentary life; I’m not a very communicative person. I talk a lot, but I often leave texts unanswered. I don’t speak to my coworkers. I don’t make friends. I’m trying to heal my body, both mentally and physically. I have a horrible relationship with food, I think I have ADHD, I often feel paralysed when trying new things. I am a college dropout. I feel stuck. This is who I am.

This is my life.

My mother and I have an interesting relationship. Up until about a week ago, id say it was strained. Its not perfect now, but we are undoing the traumas we’ve caused each other for 20 years. I love her with my whole soul, though I do not always know how to express it. I turn to anger, to rage, when I’m trying to communicate my feelings. I think what I seek most in our relationship is understanding.

 

I think her she is a beautiful, talented, intelligent, flawed individual. I hope I am exactly like her in some ways, completely different in others. I hope I have her empathy, her faith, her positivity when things get hard. I hope (although sometimes I don’t feel it), I have the same love for my children that she has for us. I hope I have a strong relationship with my family, in the same way she does with hers. I hope I create a space for creativity, for mistakes, expression, in the same way she has for me. I hope I can forgive the people who have wronged me in my life the way she has. I hope through all the hardships I experience in my future; I stay as hopeful as she has.

Although I feel all these things, I also understand her shortcomings. It is a difficult thing to communicate, because I understand why she is this way, but it’s also difficult to experience in real time. I know she grew up incredibly sheltered, too sheltered. I know my father was terrible to her. I know life has kicked her down many, many times. I know she has God. I know she is smart, I know she is forgiving to a fault. This is what makes her who she is. I know she doesn’t accept correction, I know she feels confronted when people try to give any type of criticism.

Our relationship is beautiful. It is tumultuous, but I know she cares for me, I know she sees herself in me. I know that nothing is more important to her than her children. I know she thinks she’s failed in some ways, hasn’t provided for us in the way she wishes she had. I know she wishes she was stronger, richer. It’s okay, I love her for all of these things. I love her the way she is.

There is no one on this planet that could have done a better job at raising me than her. She is a single mother, and I know she’s given us all she has, so that we can be who we are meant to be.  

 

I love you mom.

When I started writing, I planned to speak about the positives and the negatives, and each time I start to type, more and more positives spill out. Writing this down is healing something I didn’t know was broken. I hope this helps me with my journey. I hope to lead my life with love, instead of rage. I got the anger from my father, and I have spent years unlearning this.

 

 

My relationship with my father is the same on the surface, strained until recently, currently spending some time fixing the past.

 

This is the surface.

In actuality, my father has caused 90 percent of the trauma I have experienced, both directly and indirectly. He is an abusive man. My parents got married in 1997, separated in 2008. They separated because my dad’s method of communication is submission and violence. I was born in June of 2005; my father has another daughter born in May 2005. It doesn’t take a genius to do that math. My brother, mother and I, left his house in 2014.

 

I don’t think I ever hated him, I think at most, I wanted him to change. When he wasn’t violent, he was a good father. The best he knew how to be anyway. I loved our moments of laughter in that home. I loved our trips to the park; I loved when I would swing on his arm like a monkey. I remember he facetimed his wife one day, because he was trying to help me with my braids. He wanted to make sure I was taken care of. I loved when we slept in the same bed, he would make sure I was tucked in. he would cuddle me, make sure I slept well. When he first opened his shop, I built it with him every step of the way. I helped with the shelves, bringing the fridges in. we spent months on that project, and those are some of the best memories of my childhood. He would take us for ice cream in the summer. He made my lunch for school every single morning, he made sure my clothes were clean. We would watch tv together, all three of us, every Friday. He would buy us frozen pizza. He would cook for us every night he was home, even though he was working and in college. I know that he tried. This is why when we left, it was so difficult to hate him.

 

He also terrified me. I was afraid of making a single mistake. Wake up late. Slap. Cry. Slap. Bad results. Slap. Skip dinner. Slap. Upset about something. Slap. One thing that never changed was after each “session”, I would stay upstairs long after he left, to tend to my wounds. When I came downstairs, he would say “I hate that I had to do that, you know I love you”, and I would end up lying on the couch sniffling, in his arms.  I don’t think every instance needs to be discussed, but one always sticks out to me. It also happens to be the last time.

 

My mother lived in Nigeria when I was a child. From the ages of 6 to 9. During this time, I lived solely with my father. I saw my mother once or twice a year, although we communicated often. I remember one day, being in the car as we picked her up from the bus stop. I didn’t recognise her. I felt shy and awkward on this car ride. I felt like there was a stranger in my home.

That night, after many laughs, and a lot of memories shared, I remembered who she was. We sat down for dinner, and my father left the table afterwards. He called me upstairs, and I ran up smiling, so happy to have my family reunited in the place I knew was home.

 

I went upstairs and walked into our room. At this point in my life, I was 9 years old. I knew my father’s moods, I knew what I was about to experience just based on the sound of his steps, on the look on his face. This night, however, I think I was blinded by how happy I felt.

 

A few weeks before this moment, I had received a gift of a two euro coin from my father’s friend. I coveted this. Although my father wasn’t against giving us pocket money, it was generally 20 cents to get something from the shop down the road. Never this much. As I 9-year-old, I cherished this. I hid this in our room. Time passed, and I forgot about this coin. The day before my mother had arrived, I remembered it, but couldn’t remember where I kept it, so I decided to look. Maybe I wanted to get her a gift, maybe I just wanted to spend it, I don’t remember. Frankly, I don’t care.

 

When I walked into this room, smile so wide my cheeks hurt, my father was sitting on the bed. Usual routine. Birkenstocks on the floor, belt on the bed. I remember the feeling of my heart sinking into my stomach. Not now. Not tonight, not when I’m so happy. At this point in my life, I was so terrified of my father in these moods, so when he asked me what I was doing in the top shelf of the wardrobe. I lied, over and over again. Each time I lied, he picked up the shoe and hit me with such rage, such hatred, that I was angry at myself for feeling joy just a few minutes earlier. How could you ever feel happy when this is your life Charisma. Remember what he is like.

This went on for about ten minutes. I decided to tell the truth the next time he asked me. Maybe it would stop. It didn’t. I don’t think the truth mattered to him at this moment. I think he just wanted to get his frustrations out or something. He hit me so hard that the welts and bruises were already forming on me. I looked down at my arm, and saw green and blue bruises, swelling to the point I didn’t recognise.

 

Finally, when this nightmare ended, I left the room. Sobbing, holding my arms out as the heat from the hits started to register. I walked downstairs, snot-faced, into the room where my brother and mother were still laughing, still in that bubble of happiness I so regretted leaving. I ran into my mothers’ arms, a woman I thought was a stranger just that morning. This is the first time I saw a glimpse of my mother’s fiery personality. She ran upstairs, after making sure I was okay. I don’t know what happened up there. What I do know is that was the last time I ever lived in the same home as my father. The next morning, after he left for work, we left.

 

I teared up writing this passage. I also didn’t expect to write this much. I remember each and every moment of this night. I brought this up to him recently, and he told me he doesn’t regret the way he hit us, that it was how he was raised. In that moment, for the first time, I hated him. I’ve thought about it a lot more and don’t feel the same way. I understand he can’t change, I understand this was how he was raised.

 

My father loves me. My father is violent. My father is caring. My father is unfeeling. My father provided for us when we lived with him. My father will never change. I love him for who he is, I love him in spite of all he is.

 

My brother and I shared the same childhood, though I assume it affected him much more. When we were hit, I was upset, but I know my brother was much older. Not only was he upset, but he also tried to protect me at times and wasn’t always able to. I don’t think he had to, as he was a child, but I know he felt he needed to.

 

We were very close as children, inseparable. I think the abuse changed this, changed him. I see glimpses of his past self at times, but our relationship will never be the same as it was when we were children.

I think my brother is afraid of turning out like our father. This, in turn, has made him unfeeling, and selfish. You can’t be angry about anything, if you don’t care. Sometimes I don’t like who he has become, other times I am proud we both made it out of our fucked up childhood together.

I think out of everyone, I worry for him the most. He doesn’t have a job right now and hasn’t for a year. I know it hurts him and I know he hates it, but at the same time he hasn’t tried to change this part of life. Satisfied with mediocrity, in a similar way my mother is. complicit in discomfort. Prefers a routine that is unattached to responsibility. I don’t know. There isn’t much to say about him, because I don’t know him. I love him deeply, worry about him constantly, and ultimately, I wish we were as close as we once were. The trauma is what bonded us. The trauma responses are what separates us.

 

There isn’t much to say about my cousin either, although for entirely different reason. She is my sister in every sense of the word. I look up to her, I confide in her. She is the person I am closest to in life. She came here in 2019, which was a very difficult time in my life. At that time, I didn’t see myself making it to 14. Now, I am eager to grow up, so our children can meet, so we can grow as individuals, both together and apart. I felt so isolated in my home at this time. My brother didn’t speak to me, my mother was overbearing and oftentimes cruel. My friends were in the same dark place I was, all of us siphoning energy from each other. I was in therapy in a suicide prevention facility. She is the reason I stayed alive. If you ever read this babe, love ya.

Every friend I’ve ever had has either left me, betrayed me, or been a horrible person. I don’t think it’s something I need to dwell on, some of these people are my best friends and don’t get me wrong, I love them. I just think I’ve gotten used to friends hurting you in ways. Friends fight and whatnot. I love who I’ve ended up with, but I think all of these instances made me hesitant to open up, hesitant to form new bonds. I tend to put my all into my friendships, and time and time again this has affected me. I don’t know. I’m only 20 years old. I’m sure I’ll make more friends. I’m sure I’ll get over this. One thing that comes with growth is knowing, I mean really knowing, that life always gets better. I didn’t feel this way as a teenager (who does).

 

I’m sure all I’ve written down, how I remember my life, explains a lot about who I am today. I guess I wrote it down as I’ve never truly vented to myself about all this. In 2026, I want to find out who I really want to be, and this comes with finding out who I am. Blah blah blah sad life.

 

Time for the fun part.

 

When you grow up wanting to die before you’re 15(morose, I know), you kind of stop planning for the future. Its like, every moment you live after that is unexpected. I think my younger self would be pretty neutral about who I’ve become, in the same way I am now. I have learned not to hate myself I guess, but in turn, I have become complicit in who I am. I’m not great. That’s okay and all, but I want to be great. I know I can be. I know I will be. I am talented, loyal, and empathetic like my mother, fierce and hard-working (when I want to be), like my father. I am logical like my brother. I am strong-willed and goal-oriented like my cousin.

 

I know this. I am also, insecure, lazy, unconfident, and confused. that’s okay. I am all these things and more.

 

Who do I want to be? Everything. All these pieces of my past, my family, will shape my future. These are my goals.

 

I want a job that I love, something that helps people, something that brings joy, that guides people to where they need to be.

Recently, I’ve come to the realisation that God is real. It sucked in the moment actually, because I cursed him, rejected him, hated him. As I’ve sat with it, I think I’ve come to understand it more. God is not going to fix all of your problems just because you’ve asked nicely. God is not a slave to your needs. God gives you exactly what you need, exactly when you need it. I wouldn’t be who I am without hardship.

What God has given me so far, is a level of peace I have never felt. I truly feel loved when I speak to him, gross I know. Sounds crazy, but sometimes I have conversations in my head, and I know it’s him speaking to me.

 

I say all this, as I want to work with God in my future. I don’t know if I’m ready, but I know I’m here to heal people. I know I’m here to prophesy, I know I’m here to exorcize. Cool! I don’t know where it will lead me, but I know this.

 

I want to have a family. I want a partner who treats me with respect, who laughs, who loves, who is passionate. None of that non-chalant bullshit. I’ve never been in a relationship before. I don’t think I’m healed enough for it, too much self-hatred. I know that when the time is right, ill know.

 

I want children. I had a vision last year that I would have four children. Twin boys, daughter named Charisma, who is just like me, and one more child. I hope my children never experience pain at the hands of their parents. I am terrified of marrying the wrong person, but what is life without fear of the unknown. that’s the fun part.

 

I want to be healthy. I want to have confidence in my body, I don’t want to be insecure anymore. I actually think it’s why I don’t have friends. One of the main reasons anyway. I have no confidence in myself. I hate leaving the house. I’m working on it.

 

I find it much easier to talk about the past, I think. I said it earlier, I didn’t expect to get this far. I also said I was stuck. I don’t know how to get to where I want to be. I hope I find this in a few years. Not to say I’ve fixed my whole life, but to say I’ve come far from who I was at this point in my life.

 

I think to sum it up, to end all this yapping. I want to be happy. I want to be loved, unconditionally. I want to feel whole. I want to know myself. And that, my friends, is who I want to be.