They called me angry because my pain was too loud for their comfort. But no one noticed how every raised voice came from a heart begging to be understood. I was never trying to fight I was trying to explain why their words hurt me, why their silence broke me, why I felt so small standing in rooms where my feelings were treated like problems instead of wounds. So I became the “difficult” one, the “too emotional” one, when all I ever wanted was for someone to look at me and say, “I understand why you hurt.”