Everything was always my fault, when I grew up.My little Sisters were crying? Then I should have watched them better. A virus on the computer of the family? Then it must have come through me, because I had used it last. Any cookies on it? Then I will have eaten them all.
My parents went away every night.My mother was addicted to alcohol, my father always worked in the night shift. My older siblings used that as a sign that they could do what they wanted to do, but I had to stay at home.I had to fit my sisters. There was no one else at home, I did have to.
“Sorry, I can’t stay with you tonight, I have to fit on the girls.”
“But you’ve also been careful about this last weekend?“
“Right, but it should be every weekend.”
“Where are your parents?“
Everything I did was questioned and criticized, without it being constructive.Why am I running so? Why do I drink so? Why do I play words when I talk too fast? Why don’t I be on my older sister?
My own questions were put away as irritating and stupid.People nowadays tell me “that there are no stupid questions”, but I do not agree with that, because every question I have ever asked for was labeled as stupid. My questions were reversed, so somehow suddenly my mistake was that I didn’t know what I didn’t know.
I didn’t know my cousin’s name, so I asked, and was then laughed that I didn’t know his name.I didn’t know how to get to the shop, and was laughed at that time because I didn’t know how my parents always drove to the store. “You should know this by now, though!”.
Not only were my questions perceived as irritating, but also my feelings and emotions.”Stop whine, or I’ll give you something to whine about.” I’ve never really been beaten, but I’ve been getting spanked and threatened with violence. My father shook his fist, and that was enough to make me stop feeling what I felt.
I started playing in the Bridge class violin and joined the choir.I played and sang in the Bridge class and the second. My parents have been to maybe three or four concerts. I remember that one day, during the orchestra rehearsal, my fellow pupils were discussing whether their parents would come to the concert. “My mother is probably too drunk to come,” I said dismissive. Everyone laughed. They had neverseen that their parents drank alcohol.”I think my mother only drank wine once.”
In the third I was so depressed and finished with the life I stopped playing the violin.
My diaries were not only read, but also adapted.I always wrote many stories in my diaries. But sometimes words were crossed out, replaced, and whole sentences adjusted, whole paragraphs removed. So I stopped writing.
When I finally went out of the house (well, we were put out of home because we were bankrupt), I moved to a house with my best friend and her husband.I was 19. I was at the bottoming point, I think. I stopped my training. I stopped with everything.
I go to my work, I go home, I hate myself.Rinse and repeat.
One day my roommate took me to her mother’s house to watch the Walking Dead.I saw how she was talking to her mother, how easily they talked to each other, how satisfied they were, how relaxed they were, how they could talk about… everything. She told her mother something she had to cry for. If I were to tell my mother something I had to cry about, she would say that I should do normally.
When I got home, I started to wonder if my parents might not waten good parents.The thought was so confusing that I stopped it away, far away in my head. That can’t, right? It was my fault, everything was my fault. If I just knew the answers to my questions, then I wasn’t that annoying. If I loved my feelings but for myself, if I’m just, like, if, like…
How I was treated was my own fault, right?I was the one who did not dent. So I could not blame my parents, sometimes?
But a year went by, and another half years, and I had finally had enough courage to be googling on “abusive parents”.I trusted the first website I didn’t found, so I went to another one. And yet another. I went through the first three pages of Google results (the Deep Web, you know) and all the answers were the same. All the signs were there, right in front of my nose.
My parents abuse me.
It took me 22 years to write down that phrase, which is k * Tzin of four words, which does not yet describe a little bit of damage to me.And do you know what, all?
It wasn’t my Fakhar fault.
When I was six.My mom let me pee every month in a jar “for school”. One day my mother asked me again when I was playing with my brother. I stood up, but my brother stopped me and without looking at me he said, “She uses your pee to succeed for her drug tests, sit down.”
When my grandmother taught me that I could/should donate my own drink.That was strange to me. Can I do that myself? Mother always did this for me. Mom always did too much for me.
This was a reminder that later helped me realize that my parents made me dependent on the time of my life that I was seeking independence.