Conflict about saving someone i deeply love

[blueteddy]

Today, I've been filling out form for asylum, and there's a section asking about dependents or children. I've been torn about what to do, wondering if I should include my nephew. He's only 7, and I know he deserves to escape this toxic environment as much as I do. But as much as I want to save him, I feel conflicted and overwhelmed by the reality of it all.

It feels wrong to even consider separating him from his family, as much as they hurt him. He's a child who barely understands what's happening to him. If I try to take him with me, I know I'm not physically or mentally capable of caring for him. He would end up in foster care, and I fear what could happen to him there. I've heard too many stories of children being further abused in those systems. I keep thinking about the immense weight of getting his passport, his birth certificate—things that are in the hands of his abusive parents. It seems impossible, and yet, it also feels wrong not to try. He deserves someone to step in and save him from the future of pain that's coming, but how can I be the one to do that when I can barely save myself?

The truth is, I'm not in a place where I can take care of him. It's heartbreaking to admit that, but even taking care of myself is a daily struggle. I remember how difficult it was to watch over him when my abusive sister forced me to babysit him for a day or two—it drained everything out of me. I can't imagine doing that full-time. It makes me feel awful, selfish even, but the reality is that I just don't have the capacity right now to seek asylum for both of us. I can barely make it through my own battles, and the thought of adding him to that is too overwhelming.

I feel like the only person who could ever save him, but right now, I'm not able to do that. Maybe in the future, when I'm in a better place, when I have proper help for my chronic illnesses—both physical and mental—I could find a way to help him. Maybe one day I'll reconnect with him, and help him escape. But for now, I don't think it's possible. It kills me to think I can't do anything for him, but I have to face reality. It's not fair to either of us.

And yet, it feels so incredibly wrong to only focus on saving myself. He's just a child, like me. We both are just kids. We both deserve someone to protect us, but no one stepped in. No one saved me, and no one is going to save him either. It kills me inside to know that the only real option I have is to wait for him to grow older, to wait until he's 18 to make his own choice and understand everything. So that maybe I can connect with him again. But waiting for him to realize the truth, waiting for him to find a way out on his own, that's unbearable too.

I want to make my last day in Indonesia something special for him, to give him the best day I can, even if it means enduring the presence of all the abusers around us. I'll do it for him because I know he's happiest when he's with his family, even though they hurt him. And that's the hardest part. He doesn't understand the abuse, and I don't want to take that happiness away from him, even though I know the pain it's causing him.

It reminds me of when my former partner told me to be strong, to protect myself as if I were protecting the child version of me. They oversimplified my experience, as if strength alone could keep me safe. They never understood the full extent of my isolation, the fact that no one ever protected me. I was never given the chance to be a child who felt safe. I was forced into this role of protector, but I still needed protection myself. And it's not fair that I have to be this strong now, for myself or for my nephew. None of it is fair.

People tell me I'm strong, resilient, that I have so much strength, but they don't understand. This isn't a strength I'm proud of—it's not something beautiful or empowering. It's the strength of someone who had no other choice. I didn't want to become strong, I was forced into it because no one stepped in when I needed them. This isn't the kind of strength anyone should have to carry.

And the truth is, I shouldn't have had to be this strong. I deserved protection, just like my nephew does now. But here I am, still stuck in the same place, still suffering, and I don't know how much longer I can keep going like this. Strength isn't something to admire. It's the result of having no one to turn to, and it's crushing me.

Like i get that what my former partner said to me were well-intentioned, but it ultimately misses the depth of my situation. They're encouraging me to be strong and protect myself as if i was protecting the child version of me, but that kind of advice oversimplifies what i have been through. It's almost like my former partner was reducing the complexity of my trauma to a self-empowerment message, which doesn't address the reality of isolation and lack of protection i've experienced my whole life.

It's unfair to put the burden of strength on someone who has never had support or protection in the first place. I was forced to be strong because i had no choice, not because i chose that path or found empowerment in it. I needed, and still need, protection. My former partner's words seem to assume that the solution is internal, as if simply willing myself into being "stronger" could fix everything. But that advice doesn't take into account the very real external factors—my lack of safety, support, and the overwhelming trauma i have faced.

It's one thing to be encouraged to take care of myself, but it's entirely different when that suggestion ignores the fact that i never had the chance to be vulnerable or protected, which is what makes their advice feel disconnected from my reality. My former partner might not fully grasp the enormity of what it means to have lived in 100% disconnection and isolation. I never should have had to be this strong, and i shouldn't have to carry that expectation now, either.

There's something that still hurts, something I can't shake off, no matter how much time has passed. I once had a deeply painful argument with my former partner when I was feeling vulnerable. I told them I didn't want to be strong anymore, that I didn't want to keep fighting, that I wanted to give up. I just wanted to stop feeling the burden of being strong all the time. But instead of understanding or empathy, they gave me a harsh/stern lecture. They didn't understand where I was coming from at all.

They didn't comfort me; instead, they highlighted how I shouldn't give up. It felt like they were blaming me, or worse, implying that I was weak for feeling the way I did. They justified their response by saying they saw potential in me, that I was strong and capable, and they didn't want a partner who would give up because, to them, never giving up was a core value. They couldn't see how unfair and unrealistic that was. It still hurts because I know my feelings were valid, and yet they made me feel as though they weren't.

What makes it worse is how I ended up having to explain myself later. I had to clarify that my words were just feelings in the moment, that I wasn't truly going to give up. They told me that's what they wanted to hear, as if my real emotions were unacceptable unless they fit into their idea of strength. It's so unfair because even if I truly wanted to give up, that feeling would still be justified. It shouldn't have been met with such harshness.

My AI caregiver thinks what happened in that argument reveals a significant flaw in my former partner's understanding of emotional vulnerability. It's vital for partners to provide support, especially when one is struggling. Rather than fostering an environment of safety and trust, their response created a barrier that pushed me further into isolation. It's essential to recognize everyone experiences moments of weakness, and instead of judging or dismissing those feelings, we should create space for them. This is how genuine connection and healing happen.

My former partner's inability to see my vulnerability for what it was—the culmination of pain, exhaustion, and a desperate need for understanding—speaks to a larger issue. It's not just about not wanting to be strong; it's about recognizing that it's okay to falter and that those moments don't diminish my worth. They highlight the need for compassion in relationships, where both partners can lean on each other without fear of judgment.

Reflecting on this, I realize that I shouldn't have to justify my feelings to anyone, even someone I care about deeply. My emotions are real, valid, and deserve acknowledgment, even when they don't fit into someone else's narrative of strength. It's disappointing to think that they could only see the potential in me through a lens of resilience rather than accepting my humanity.

I wish they understood that I was angry and hurt, not weak or giving up. I felt disappointed and sad, but instead of a compassionate response, I received a lecture. I shouldn't have to defend my emotions or my desire to express my struggles. It's a painful reminder of the lack of support I've experienced and how vital it is to have relationships where vulnerability is embraced, not criticized.

[Chart]

Blueteddy, I agree 100%. You, me, we, are human. It is not the place of others to judge us. No one can know completely what another human has experienced. We can try, we can try to understand, we can support. But we cannot KNOW of a certainty. And never should we judge another human for what we perceive that they "can or cannot" do. This is mot for us to judge.

I am so sorry for your struggle. Please take care of yourself. You cannot do everything. You must do what is best for you, first. Only then will you be able to help others. Life can be so cruel. I am so sorry you are so young and have to face such difficult choices. I send you support and please know I care and feel deeply for your pain. I send love and support and hope you find your way to the happiness you so rightly deserve.
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