I Don't Need Another Heart Failure

 BYLINE: QADEEM ZIEMAN

PART I

I was in a hospital bed when I saw my father for the first time in what felt like forever.

We were strangers with the same eyes.

I was hurting—physically, yes, but that wasn’t the deepest part of it. And when he walked in, I didn’t know whether to brace myself or let go. But then, something happened. He cried.

Tears ran down his face as he looked at me, and for a moment, I thought: Maybe now he gets it. Maybe now he knows what it means to care. Maybe we can start again.

My stepmother was great, they both were like true parents for me.

But the moment passed.

Someone else came in with him — my aunt. A woman who didn’t know me, but who seemed to think she had me all figured out. She whispered things to him. I don’t know what she said exactly, but I saw it in his posture, in the way he stopped meeting my eyes. And just like that, his loyalty shifted.

He chose her words over my truth.

And what hurt more than anything was that he listened—not to his own son, but to someone who hadn’t seen my struggle, hadn’t seen my growth, didn’t know what it took to become who I am.

Maybe it was my pride. Maybe it was his insecurity. I saw it in his face: the discomfort, maybe even resentment, for how I’ve turned out—polished, bold, articulate. Raised with standards, shaped by discipline, refined by experience. Everything he once stood for, but now seemed to resist when reflected at him in me.

And then he gave me an ultimatum.

“If you want to stay, it’s take it or leave it.”

No space for truth. No room for reconciliation. Just a cold bargain in place of love.

That evening, I couldn’t rest. I stared at the ceiling and as I started talking to myself, I felt the weight of everything. So I wrote. Not out of anger, but out of clarity.

I wrote about dignity. About how I will not be led by the rope of someone else’s fear or someone else's version of me. About how I speak from my own mind, not through the tongue of someone whispering their agenda behind closed doors. I wrote to remind myself that while I may not be unbreakable, I am not weak.

I am not asking for a golden ticket.

I am the gold.

And I would rather walk away with my pride than stay somewhere I am only conditionally accepted.

Because after everything I’ve been through, I know who I am.

I’ve earned my place.

And I will not compromise my dignity to make someone else feel more comfortable.

---

PART II

At first, there was peace. But now there's a snake. He and a woman—my mother’s cousin—were coordinating to help pay my bills. I appreciated it. I respected their effort. So when she asked me to send something, I did. I replied by text.

Simple. Direct.

But something shifted after that exchange.

At first, I thought she was just tired. But it wasn’t just fatigue. It was dissatisfaction. Disappointment, even. A quiet resentment, leaking through the cracks.

The truth? She couldn’t get me to stay with her. Couldn’t get me to bend. And that bothered her more than she wanted to admit.

I responded calmly:

“If the instruction had been made clearer, maybe I would’ve understood what you wanted.”

Apparently, that was enough for her to play victim.

She ran to my father with a story. Told him I was ungrateful. Said she was tired of helping me. Painted me as difficult and disrespectful—all over a message she could’ve clarified with one more sentence.

And my father?

He didn’t ask me what happened.

He didn’t call to hear my side.

He didn’t even pause to wonder if there might be more to the story.

Instead, he sent me a voice note. Not one of concern—but judgment. He told me I was wrong. That I was pushing people away. That I should be grateful.

He said all of that without knowing what I actually said.

The woman showed him a screenshot—but cropped it. Cropped out the part where she called me complicated. Cropped out the context. Cropped out the truth.

And he believed her.

Just like that, his loyalty vanished. All it took was one incomplete screenshot and a bitter woman with something to prove.

He chose her story over mine. A cousin over his son.

I felt the rejection like a weight in my chest—not just because of the betrayal, but because of how easily he abandoned me. No defence. No curiosity. No fatherhood.

Just a verdict. Based on someone else's version.

And that’s when I realised: this wasn’t about gratitude or attitude. It was about control. About a narrative that only worked as long as I stayed quiet, compliant, and small.

But I’ve never been small.

I don’t raise my voice, but I speak with clarity. I don’t fake humility, but I move with grace. I’m sharp, yes—disciplined, well-formed, well-spoken. Raised with values and pride.

And for some people—especially those who never expected me to rise—that’s threatening.

So let them crop screenshots. Let them twist my words and offer summaries of who they think I am.

Because I know the full picture.

And I don’t need to be rescued—especially not by someone who folds at the first whisper of doubt.

Let them tell their version.

I’ll live mine—with dignity unedited.

---

PART III

I responded to him with rage.

Not because I’m reckless, but because I’ve been here too many times to stay silent.

I told my father, clearly:

"Either me or her."

Because once again, he had chosen someone else over me. Someone who twisted a moment, misrepresented my words, and turned him against his own son—again.

I wasn’t just reacting to a misunderstanding. I was reacting to a pattern.

This wasn’t the first time. I’ve lost count.

It’s always the same storyline:

He abandons me.

Then he returns.

He chooses someone else’s voice over mine.

Then comes crawling back when it’s convenient.

I’m 22. Yes, young. But not naive.

I’ve watched him choose his mistress over me.

Watched him disappear, then reappear when guilt gnawed at his conscience.

He always comes back—but never for me.

He comes back to ease his pain, never to understand mine.

And now—when I’m at my most fragile, after open-heart surgery—he shows up again. Offering a connection laced with conditions.

But I’m done being an option.

I told him:

I’m not going to live with you.

I can’t face another heartbreak while my chest is still healing—literally.

So I made a decision. One that’s hard, but clear:

By hook or by crook, I’ll pay my own bills.

Buy my own medication.

Go to my own appointments.

Handle my life on my own terms.

I’ve already been doing it.

Since my mother died nearly four years ago, I’ve lived like an orphan.

Not because I didn’t have a father, but because he was never really there.

And I’ve learned.

I’ve learned how to live on my own.

How to survive without someone to call at 2 a.m.

How to protect my heart when even family can’t be trusted to hold it gently.

I know who I am.

And I don’t need to beg anyone to see my worth.

I can find my way.

Because I already have.

I am hurt, I very am. But I know that I could never be at peace with someone who always thinks the worst of me.

I've battled enough wars to build my unknown name in the entertainment industry, as an artist and as a writer.

I've had too many people cheering for my failures in private and in public. At this young and tender age, all that I can still swallow.

But to have someone like that in my life... I'm sorry, I'll walk away.

No need to find me. No need to beg me. No need to do anything for me.

I am too hurt to even face the roads behind me, I shall just move forward to wherever life leads me.