“Insidious is blind inception
What’s reality with all these questions?
Feels like I missed my alarm and slept in
Broken legs, but I chase perfection
These walls are my blank expression
My mind is a home I’m trapped in
And it’s lonely inside this mansion.”
— NF, “Mansion”
NF’s words feel like they were written about me.
Being a pastor’s kid was supposed to mean safety, faith, and family. For me, it meant performing while dying inside. It meant carrying secrets that no one wanted to see. It meant learning to paint over cracks because that’s what my father did.
I was sexually abused for nine years. The worst part wasn’t just the abuse — it was that when I finally spoke, my father pretended it didn’t happen. He wanted to keep everything “fine,” to protect the image of a godly family. So he painted over the truth. He brushed a new coat of “forgiveness” over my pain, the kind that really means bury it deeper.
He wanted the picture-perfect house.
And I learned to live in it.
Now, as an adult, I catch myself doing the same — pretending I’m okay while my mind quietly caves in.
“Yo, my mind is a house with walls, covered in pain
See, my problem is, I don’t fix things, I just try to repaint
Cover ’em up, like it never happened, say, ‘I wish I could change.’”
— NF, “Mansion”
This lyric is my childhood in one stanza.
I was told to forgive my abuser — but in my world, forgive meant let it go, don’t bring it up, don’t make anyone uncomfortable.
Forgive meant silence.
Forgive meant don’t ruin the family image.
Forgive meant protect the man who hurt you and the people who looked away.
And I did. I buried it. I called it peace.
But it wasn’t peace — it was suffocation.
I regret watching these trust issues eat me alive. I regret how much it costs me to ask for help, how hard it is to believe anyone means well. Abuse taught me fear, but the silence that followed taught me shame.
“And I regret watchin’ these trust issues eat me alive
And at the rate I’m goin’, they’ll probably still be there when I die
Congratulations, you’ll always have a room in my mind
The question is, will I ever clean the walls off in time?”
— NF, “Mansion”
Being a PK added another layer of pain — people saw me as holy, safe, unbreakable. No one asked questions because they didn’t want the answers. Church was the stage, and our family was the performance. Behind the pulpit, we smiled. Behind closed doors, I was collapsing.
I lived in a house filled with Bibles and secrets.
And the sermons about grace never seemed meant for me.
“So this part of my house, no one’s been in it for years
I built a safe room and I don’t let no one in there
’Cause if I do, there’s a chance that they might disappear
And not come back, and I admit, I am emotionally scared…”
— NF, “Mansion”
That safe room — I know it too well.
Mine isn’t built of wood or walls. It’s made of silence and overthinking. It’s the place I go when I feel too broken to risk being known. If someone gets too close, I shut the door. If they knock, I pretend I didn’t hear it. Because if I let them in, they might leave.
And if they leave, I’ll blame myself for trusting them.
I understand what NF meant when he said:
“I built it because I thought that it was safer in there
But it’s not…”
It’s not safe. It’s lonely. But when you’ve been taught that vulnerability equals danger, loneliness feels familiar — almost comforting in its predictability.
Sometimes I listen to Lovely by Billie Eilish and Khalid, and it hits the same bruised spot:
“Isn’t it lovely, all alone?
Heart made of glass, my mind of stone.
Tear me to pieces, skin to bone,
Hello, welcome home.
But I hope someday I’ll make it out of here…”
— Billie Eilish & Khalid, “Lovely”
That line — “I hope someday I’ll make it out of here” — is the ache I live with.
I want to make it out. Out of the mansion. Out of the performance. Out of the fear that being honest will ruin everything.
Healing, for me, isn’t demolition. It’s renovation.
It’s unlocking one room at a time.
It’s sitting in the dark long enough to name what’s there instead of painting it over again.
It’s realizing that forgiveness isn’t silence — it’s letting go of the illusion that silence ever kept me safe.
And it’s relearning who God really is.
Because the God I met in my father’s sermons was one who demanded perfection, quick forgiveness, and quiet obedience.
But the God I’ve met in the wreckage is different.
He’s not standing at the pulpit telling me to get over it.
He’s sitting on the floor of the locked room, unafraid of the mess.
He doesn’t force the door open. He waits. Patiently.
When I finally unlock it, He doesn’t turn away.
He just sits with me until I can breathe again.
My mansion isn’t a show home anymore.
It’s a work in progress.
The walls still bleed sometimes. The doors still creak.
But I’m done pretending this place is spotless.
I’m not ready to call it lovely —
but I am starting to believe
that someday,
I’ll make it out of here
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