I was there, and now I’m here

They never truly cared about me. All they wanted was to present a perfect image, even with the shouting and screaming that often came from our house. My volatile father and submissive mother became completely self-absorbed. I was a teenager when my sister was born, and I saw everything first-hand.

In my house, apologies were non-existent. When someone messed up, they'd retreat into silence, and after a few days, things would just go back to normal. That was the “normal” way of life, dictated by my mother. It was the only rhythm we knew, because if it were up to my dad, we'd never have interacted as a family. He was a loner, preferring to handle everything himself, from the plumbing to fixing the roof. As he got older, though, those tasks became less suitable for him.

They never seemed to notice how they treated me. My actions were always under a microscope, and they punished me and emotionally shut me down if I didn't fit their expectations. I'd wanted to be a writer since I was a child, but I was so shy I wouldn't even discuss what I was doing after school. At school, I was too scared to speak up, even when I knew the answer. My classmate would do it instead, and foolishly I'd give her the correct responses so she could get good grades. The least she could have done was show some gratitude, which she did.

Life took a turn when I moved to a new country. Finally, I was free from my father's physical and emotional abuse and my mother's overbearing ways. I knew the world wasn't always kind to someone as vulnerable as I was, but I wanted to make it better. I found a job, and even a boyfriend, who, unfortunately, was married with children back home. Before I left him, he showed me how cruel people can be. Now, I channel those hard experiences into my writing, giving me so many characters to develop.

My parents were never honest with me. Our relationship effectively ended when my sister was born. From that pivotal moment in 1997, there was a constant battle, which they always seemed to win. But they lost me. They didn't seem to care about losing me, their first daughter, because they always had their favourite, who met their needs. My dad taught her to drive, while I remained scared, and still am to this day. A stay in a mental hospital, where people shouted about killing their mothers, did not disrupt her studies. My mother never knew, and even after she did, she never understood the damage she caused to my soul, while my dad damaged my body. My dad was abusive even in the year he died. He once jumped on me, fist raised, because I didn't want to eat something my mom had made that I didn't like (I'm a picky eater). He claimed I was hurting her, so he defended her. With his fists. In that moment, I decided I would never stay in that house again, the "family house" as my mother called it, as the threat had lingered for decades, only visible to me.

You'd expect parents to support their children, even if not financially, at least emotionally. Any kind of support is invaluable, especially when you're young and trying to find your way. That was me - facing pressure with no clear idea of my life's direction. I wanted to write, but the writing world seemed vast until I found my niche. Before that, I was adrift, searching for subjects, genres, and characters that fit my style. I knew little about the professionalism required. Even with talent, building consistent habits takes time. That kind of support was always missing. Yet, unsurprisingly, I'm doing it anyway, despite others' misjudgments. No one bothers to truly understand before he or she judges.

It's never easy to go against your parents. But when love turns into cold calculation, what else is there to do? I spent a long time weighing my attachment to them against my resentment, and I don't regret speaking up. I will not stay silent while they constantly ignore my basic human rights. That's how it always was, no matter how good my parents pretended to be. They'd pick me up from the airport to show off, but they'd use my sister's car, something I didn't even know about. I felt humiliated, especially since my sister doesn't speak to me. She always used me, just like the men I'd known, and discarded me in the end like a bag of trash. She visited me in the UK and never admitted to her friends that I was her sister. However, she always acknowledged her mother, not me. In London, we went to the places she wanted. I was working night shifts then and couldn't even take time off during her entire visit. I didn't even have a place of my own, just shared accommodation with a single room. But she wanted to come, so I never protested. If I had known the future, I would never have let her inflict this wound on top of the ones my parents already caused. I believe I'm a good person, but others judge me based on their own limited views of life. One vision, when there are so many good ways to live.

My mother recently complimented me on having character. I took it as a compliment because, had she not let me figure things out on my own when I was young, I'd be a different person. I wouldn't write on Vocal or anywhere else. The negative people I've met are why I write. So, I suppose I should be thankful to those bad people who surrounded me, consumed by jealousy, hatred, and revenge, as they saw those things as solutions to their problems. It's a shame that most of their problems began after they disrespected and ignored me - karma's a constant.

I divorced my parents twelve years ago, and now I'm free.