I came to the world of the summer of 2006 in the morning. Wrapped in the umbilical cord, naked and wet. And that's a thing that never changed throughout my life. Still naked — struggling to cover my true-self in many ways to hide from every alive thing that can see me. Still wet — fragile, triggered by smallest things possible, covered in tears and my own blood, unable to dry. And wrapped up tightly by the expectations, pressure, relationships that are unescapable, stuck.

I grew up in a house with a mother, father and a grandmother. Later in life, when I started highschool, mine little brother joined us. And I belived wholeheartedly that my family is one of the rare ones that love eachother and isn't, so called, toxic. I had everything I could've wished for, my parents didn't argue, they didn't hate eachother. They seemed different then parents of my friends. But truth be told, the more you age, the more you get aware. It's difficult coming to terms with your feelings and reality. Every thought that is in any way negative about my mother or father in a way feels like a sin in my head. It doesn't make them bad — it makes me bad. I'm a bad, ungreatful child, that wants to turn them into monsters. And while there for sure are worse parents than them, people never were black or white, good or bad. It's still hard for me to think or say that my childhood or relationship with parent's isn't healthy because it wasn't and isn't always this way. But it doesn't need to be. I need to accept this. My expirience for sure wasn't quote un quote normal. There is inrepairable demage on my psyche and I struggle everyday and with everything.

I lived in the lack of stability, with my father absent for weeks and months because he was at work, and with my mother who can't handle her emotions in the slightest. Their love was more like a promise, a word, then safety. But it didn't matter that my dad was away, right? When he was there, he played games with me, showed me media that I could take interest in. I wasn't even that sad when he was leaving for work. And it didn't matter that I felt like my mother hated and despised me because she always told me she loved me and bought me toys and clothes, right?

Maybe my parents love eachother and didn't shout at eachother, but they did yell at me. At least my mother for sure. Uncounted amount of time, filled with pure rage, as uncontrollable as a little kid. And to this day she belives that she has the right to do that, because she can't always control her anger. If only she didn't get enraged by the littlest things possible and in a few secounds tells words she shouldn't. They hurt each time. They make me feel that I'm in danger each time.

I'm scared to be a person in this house. I'm scared to have my own feelings and my own life, because I'm scared of the reaction of my mother. My brain always pictures scenarios where she cry, where she screams, yells, tell cruel things. I even feel like I will get slaped, punched, physicaly hurt, just because she won't like something. Just because I will for once be undependant, different then she imagined me to be. And for a long long time I didn't bother getting my mind into why that's how I felt. And I'm afraid it's deeper then just scare from just her anger and words.

Well, you see, I'm going to be 20 this year and I just discovered that other people my age weren't getting smacked in their asses when they were a kid. Well, I was, and my family made me belive that it's normal in a way. I knew that beating your children isn't good, beating anyone isn't good duh. But the thing is — for my parents smack on the butt was a normal part of raising a kid. And it still is in their mind and it doesn't count as hurting your kid. And to be honest, I don't think I got hurt many times as a kid, but I can't be sure. I don't remember a lot from my childhood. I have one memory of when my dad beat me. I don't remember the act, but I do remember what room I was in, how angry I was and that I was crying and went outside of the room to argue about it to someone. You are a kid, punished, hurt, for something potentialy so so small and irrelevant, by a parent, who you love, who tells you they love you, and you aren't even met with comfort because everyone in the house thinks it was a normal thing to do. And it lefts you with a scar, deep scar, that makes you deadly affraid of doing ANYTHING wrong. You can't teach yourself after all those years that people are allowed to make mistakes, so can you. And you are a doll of a person, who for many years tried to make as little problems as possible, to have as little personality as possible. And you just sit there. And can't belive that your girlfriend who had, you thought, way worse family situation than you, tell you that their parents NEVER beat them, not even once. And you don't know what to think about all of this. Because people around you made you belive that people still are punishing missbehavior in children with a good old smack and it's a normal thing. I'm very lost about all of this, because I don't even think about it often, like something that didn't affect me, when it did in fact made me act the way I did my whole life. And I wonder if my memory is correct. Was it very rare when I got smacked? Was I really smacked only by my dad, or my mother too because I saw her smack my brother just this week. I have no idea. And it's scary that I don't. I hate not knowing. It makes me sad. And in a way lonely. To know that my parents tricked my head into beliving that violance is normal and even should be used towards children. And it makes me sad in a stupid, guilty way, that my friends didn't expirience this. I'm glad they didn't, really, but it just makes me feel really lonely and weird to have the knowledge that in fact beating your children really isn't practiced in every house. And it was and still to this day is in your home. In which you should feel safe. But I don't feel safe. And I'm sad for my brother that he has to live with the same mother and father as I do.