When I was 14, I passed out and hit my face off the edge of my desk. Falling on that desk gave me my first black eye. I passed out, because I refused to eat. My mom told me that if I gained any more weight, I’d get huge thighs like my grandma. She told me I couldn’t weigh over 100 pounds or no one would love me.

When I was 17, my mom cussed out my volleyball coach after a game. She had benched me because I wasn’t playing my best. The next day at school, the guidance counselor asked me if my parents beat me after hearing what she had done in public to my coach. My volleyball coach (bless that woman) told me if I still wanted to play, she’d get a security guard at every home game to stop my parents from coming. They had told her I wasn’t allowed to play anymore. When I got angry at my mom for what she did, she took my bedroom door off the hinges. She told me, like she always did to belittle me, that I had anger issues.

On the day I turned 18, my mom chaperoned a school field trip. At the end of the day, she called one of my classmates a bitch. I was appalled. I bawled my eyes out when I got home. My mom told me she wasn’t sorry and that I should have no reason to be upset with her. When I didn’t agree, in anger, she told me I would one day be a shitty mom. I’ve never wanted kids since.

My dad is no saint either.

When he’d get angry, he’d shoot holes in the trailer walls or punch the drywall in his workshop and cover those holes up with family pictures.

When I would come home from college, he’d take me on walks where he’d talk about how he wanted to commit suicide. Being a parent was hard, he’d say, and he didn’t sign up for any of this.

When I was 24, my father laid hands on me for the first time—that is if you don’t include the countless spankings we received as punishment as kids.

Together, my parents are a toxic duo.

Last week, I called them to let them know I’m concerned about my brother—a young combat veteran who is suicidal. As much as I tried, I couldn’t get them to care.

I’ve been struggling for years to decide whether or not my parents are good or bad people.

All my life I’ve heard nothing but, “Put family first, mija.” And I did. I made excuses for them. But when they didn’t care about my brother, that was the final straw. I realized I don’t love those two people. And they’ve never loved me. I’ve been trauma bonded to them my whole life, and that’s the only reason I can’t get rid of them.

I’m 28 now. And I feel like I never stood a fighting chance. I’ve learned so many fucked up behaviors and coping mechanisms from them. I’ve battled eating disorders and gone through abusive relationships that all seemed normal, because that’s all I knew.

And I have a lot of anger right now toward them. And I’m actually ok with that. I needed to write this because I’ve been holding these stories in wondering for almost three decades if I was overreacting. And I finally know I’m not.

-knix23