I was just a kid.

It's easy, now, for you to say you never struck me until I was in middle school (because of my additude, supposedly, but in reality I'd started to realize I was still being abused emotionally thru seeing normal familial interactions with my first best friend), but in reality, you didn't lay your hands on me at all between the ages of 8 and 17.

I can't remember just how young I was, now, but I know I was just a kid when you first started smacking me around. They were for little things, like not washing the mountain of dishes you'd let stack up because for some reason you decided that four years was old enough for your youngest child and only daughter to take over the task of washing ALL of the dishes. You stopped washing your own plate and my older brother took that cue from you. Or the time when I was 6 and got distracted by the toys I found while cleaning my room and you slapped my face, both cheeks, and screamed every swear word you knew in my face. By the time you ran out of words, I had long since started crying, sobbing as you just screamed the word "WHORE" in my face over and over again. "And stop with those fucking crocodile tears." Or the time you beat me with the shoes you found in the hall when I was 7 because I'd had them all stashed in my room.

I remember the last time you really hit me, too. I was 8 years old and I hadn't done the dishes well enough for you. You threw everything I'd already washed back in the sink and made me rewash them. When you stomped out of the kitchen, I remember my ears were still ringing from when your blows. I swore to myself that the next time you hit me, I'd hit you back. I just couldn't decide between "just as hard" and "twice as hard".

Maybe it was because I just obeyed for a while that you didn't actually hit me again. Maybe it was all a part of you checking out after your sister died. But from there on, your physical abuse was instead replaced eith emotional abuse and neglect as I slowly took over the roles you wouldn't do anymore.

With you locked in your room all the time, leaving my brother and I unsupervised, he grew more cruel. Finding any and every excuse to hurt me. When I was 12, you let him get away with crippling my knee. (I still don't know exactly what his attack did to it because thanks to your drunkass, debter of a husband, we're fucking bankrupt and can't afford to get it checked out.) But the worst of it was the four years where he sexually abused me. You ignored my subtle cries for help, but I managed to convince him to stop because I was old enough to start menstruating soon. That same best friend through whom I finally saw normal familial life helped me realize I'd be sexually abused. Even now, at 21, I'm not even sure how long it was really going on as I realize he was grooming me for it years before he ever penetrated me. I thought it was normal. I thought it was okay. I was so absolutely fucked up in the head by him that I even went to him once. The thought makes me sick, now that I know, but I wish I could have figured that out before I ever tried to tell because that's exactly how he made you believe he didn't rape me. You gave me a hefty allowance to keep me quiet.

When I was 14, my father- your drunk of a husband- grabbed me by my throat and tossed me in my room and I'd had enough. I called the boy I was dating at the time and had his mom pick me up somewhere, and she called CPS on you. It's funny, when we were little and you thought we should handle cleaning the house ourselves, you often tried to scare us by saying that if Child Protective Services saw the state of our house, they'd take us away and we'd never see you or dad ever again. You had no idea that's all I ever wanted, did you? When I was four and you'd literally drag me inside to cook with you instead of playing with my brothers, I wanted them to take me away. Every time you smacked me around over some fucking dishes, I wanted them to take me away. Every time I got an F for not doing my homework because I had too much work to do at home and you lied to them and said "yeah, she does the dishes sometimes, but I see absolutely no reason why she isn't getting her homework done; she has plenty of time," I wanted to be taken away right there just so I wouldn't have to be bitched out for an hour over "what if you got taken away?!"

You went through my diary left behind and found out I'd had sex with my boyfriend ONCE and went to work getting the charges dropped against my brother. I had no proof, so now I have to watch him walking free, hearing him doing brother-sister sex roleplay with his girlfriend on the other side of the wall. I still I can't believe you were able to manipulate me into reunification. You bastards got me back with the promise of change, but when I returned, I was saddled with more work than ever.

When I was 17 and we had started having a better relationship, I had a friend over talking to me as I washed dishes and you decided to take over the conversation with talks of my father's phallus. I was uncomfortable. My friend was VISIBLY uncomfortable. I asked you politely to stop. You kept making jokes about dad's penis. I asked you again to please stop talking about my dad's dick, and told you it was the last time I'd ask politely. You continued. Now, quite irritated, I just demanded you stop, pointing out how obviously uncomfortable my friend was, yet you continued. Frustrated, I spotted a cup of tea you'd left on the counter for several days and grabbed it, dumping it on the rack of freshly cleaned dishes and retreating to my room at the end of the hall.

As I unlocked my door, I heard you stomping towards me, so I started to turn towards you, expecting to be yelled at.

Instead, with my torso partially turned in your direction and my friend watching at the other end of the hall, you shoved me with all the might of an angry 50 year old woman into the wall behind/next to me. You snarled something at my friend about how I'll do anything to get out of doing dishes before locking yourself in your room with my friend in shock, unmoving at the other end of the hall. I'd never experienced pain like that before. I laid where I fell for quite some time, just crying as quietly as I could, afraid to get up until my friend was able to shake himself off. He helped me into my room and somehow managed to convince you I wasn't faking, since some time later, you came and chucked a soft ice pack at me.

Now you try and pretend you were the perfect mother, spoiling me in any way you could. Erasing the abuse from history by lying. But you can't erase my memories, as much as I wish you could. God help me, I try to love you. I try to get along now that you're slightly more stable. But as you already know, pretending only goes so far. I want to have a good relationship with you, but you're so fucking obsessed with yourself and your position as a victim that you can't even admit you hurt me. I don't even want an apology, Susan. I just want you to admit the truth JUST FUCKING ONCE.

Just because you weren't just like YOUR mother doesn't mean you weren't abusive. Just because you "love" me doesn't mean I ever felt loved. Just because you blocked out all the bad you did doesn't mean I did, or even can.

Now I've got my own place. A loving boyfriend with a little boy that I'm terrified to be alone with because I'm scared I'll be like you. I still flinch when someone raises their voice to me. When I make a mistake, I start crying and apologizing and can't seem to stop. I'm still afraid to ask for things I need, and my boyfriend can't understand why I ask permission to do everything.

But I've stopped crying myself to sleep at night.

The dark thoughts still come, but are no longer constant.

And I'm no longer living just to outlast you.