The Childhood I Had to Heal from as an Adult

I always desperately sought my parents’ attention. For their love. Their approval. But I was neglected. My dad always favored his other kids—especially my younger brother. If they hit me, it was fine. But if I defended myself, Dad would slap me or throw a sandal at me. My voice never mattered.

I shared the same birthday as my father. I thought that would make me special to him. I guess my expectations were too high.

Once, I accidentally crashed my bike into a kid. His mouth bled. I panicked and ran home, bruised and shaken. Dad didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t care that my brakes didn’t work or that the kid ran out suddenly. He just threw me in a storage room and locked the door. I cried alone in the dark until Mom let me out.

Another time, my brother and his friends were being loud upstairs. I warned them, “Dad will get mad.” When he did, he ignored them and came straight to me. He grabbed my face, yanked my hair, screamed at me, and shoved me to the ground. I cried myself to sleep that night.

I didn’t understand back then—but I knew something wasn’t right.

My self-esteem was shattered. Relatives mocked me, called me names, and my parents laughed along. Dad cursed me in his native tongue. If I cried, they’d hit me. So I stopped crying in front of them. I became distant but still clingy—desperate for affection. Even now, I hug my mom every day, though she says hugs give her anxiety. No matter how hard I hold her, it never feels like enough.

She recently took my phone—the only way I could talk to my faraway friends. I’ve never felt lonelier.

Still, I want to heal. I’m only 17, but I’ve lived through too much already. Thankfully, I have people who stayed. My friends, and the dork who likes me. They know my past. They didn’t run away. They loved me unconditionally. They reminded me I deserve better.

I used to envy classmates with loving parents. One lived next door. I saw him and his brother play football with their dad. I was jealous. My dad never did that. My mom didn’t either—she always had an excuse: “I’m tired,” “I don’t want to.” I just wanted one moment of joy with them.

One night, when Mom was out, Dad—drunk again—told me, “If I ever find your mom with another man, I’ll shoot her.” I was just a kid. Terrified.

My parents never loved each other. Dad married Mom to take care of his children from his first wife. She once ran away but came back when she found out she was pregnant with me. They stayed together “for us.” But all that did was hurt us more. Hurt me.

I gaslit myself into thinking I was ungrateful. I promised never to be like my step-siblings. I swore I’d always respect my parents. Ironically, I became the one who argued with them most—because they never respected me. I still respect them. I even forgive them. But don’t expect me to forget.

When I stopped people-pleasing and finally prioritized myself, my mom got angry. That’s when I realized: if they truly cared, they’d remember what they did to me. Maybe they do. Maybe they just choose to ignore it.

But I won’t forget.

Once, my brother stole my money. I hit him—lightly—and he slapped me hard across both cheeks. I fell from the bed, slammed against the wall, and hit the ground. I stumbled to the bathroom… and blood started pouring from my nose. It was the first time I had physical proof of how bad things were. I showed my mom. She panicked.

Blood soaked my clothes, the floor, even my scarf. My dad rushed home. They scolded my brother—and that was it. I took photos to send to my friends. I knew they’d believe me even without proof—but trauma taught me otherwise.

Mom took me to the hospital. My body trembled, my head spun. But no doctors were available, so we went back. On the way to the car, she told me to forgive my brother—because she had yelled at him. If it were me, I’d be slapped. I’d be given the silent treatment. My brother? He laughed and said, “There was literally no point in dragging her to the hospital.”

He never respected me. I respected my older siblings. I even respected him. But it was never returned. I grew up fearing everyone.

I listened to both my parents vent about each other like I was their therapist. I didn’t want to hear it—but I did. Because I loved them. That’s what hurts most. I loved them.

But I thank Allah. If Dad had treated me like his favorite, I might’ve become like the rest—spoiled, selfish. Instead, I saw the truth. I held onto kindness. I’m not saying I deserved the pain—but it didn’t turn me cold. It made me compassionate.

My friends admire me. I still find that hard to believe. But I’m here. Still breathing. Still healing. Still trying.

To Anyone Who’s Felt Like Me:

The past is the past. Don’t let it decide who you become. Even when it feels like the whole world’s against you, even when things seem hopeless—there’s always another way forward.

If no one else has said it:

You matter.

You are not too much.

You are not unlovable.

And you are so much stronger than what you’ve been through.