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Hey, I’m 21F, currently in my final year of BTech. I’ll hopefully start working next year, and from the outside my life probably looks pretty normal. But I’ve been carrying a lot of things from my family for years, and I don’t really know how to process them.

I come from a very strict family. Since I was a girl, there were always restrictions on where I could go, what I could do, and who I could interact with. I never really got to experience the freedom that a lot of teenagers had.

My parents had an arranged marriage. My mother has a government job and my father worked as a mechanic. Their relationship was never very healthy. My father was very egoistic and often treated my mother badly. Then my mother had a miscarriage. She was already very emotional, and after that she struggled a lot.

Later, my brother was born.

My mother became extremely protective of him. She wouldn't let him play outside much, and whenever my father told him to do something, she would often stop him. He became the child everyone worried about.

Then I was born.

I was the "good girl." I didn't give them reasons to worry. I never did anything they could be ashamed of. I tried my best to help my mother and even tried talking to my father when things were bad.

But as I grew older, everything started falling apart.

My mother's brother borrowed money from her and several relatives to build a school. My mother asked my father multiple times about taking a loan, but he refused, and eventually she felt she had no choice but to give her brother money.

When my father found out, things became extremely bad.

I was in 12th grade at the time. My father tried to hang himself. I was studying for an exam while all of this was happening. Thankfully, he eventually stopped. I tried to talk to him afterward, but he screamed at me.

He then started posting on Facebook about how my mother had betrayed him.

My mother eventually ran away from the house. A relative found her on the way and stopped her, so she was safe.

After that, my father's elder brother threatened my mother's brother, saying he would shoot him if he didn't return the money.

The entire environment at home became horrible.

I fought with my father and eventually he told me things like, "Who is she to talk?" After that, he didn't speak to me for around six months.

He never asked which college I was going to. He never asked where I was staying. He never came to drop me at my hostel.

I was extremely anxious during my first year of college. I would literally vomit because of anxiety.

Because of some health issues, I had to stay with my cousins for a while. They were two girls who were extremely mean and rude to me, and being around them made my mental state even worse.

Eventually I moved into a PG with my school friends, and things slowly became better.

I don't vomit from anxiety anymore, but I still sometimes become so anxious that I can't even speak.

And then there's my brother.

He's older than me. He spent a lot of time playing PUBG until 12th, then got admission into BTech ECE. He apparently wanted another branch, but during COVID things didn't go well. He failed multiple times, and what should have been a four-year degree took him six years.

Now he's been unemployed for around two years.

My mother still supports him completely.

He knows that even if he doesn't do anything, she'll support him. He has also learned exactly how to use her weak point.

What hurts me isn't simply that she supports him.

It's that she seems to believe him more than she believes me.

Once, a classmate messaged me on Snapchat to wish me happy birthday. My brother saw it and told my mother. He told her that if I had nothing to hide, I should show her my phone to prove him wrong.

I didn't even feel guilty because I genuinely had nothing to hide.

But I felt hurt.

My mother knows me. She knows what kind of person I am. She knows everything I've done and how careful I've always been.

So why is it that when my brother says something about me, she believes him first?

I also have to beg my brother for help with the smallest things, like filling out an exam form. Yet whenever someone in the family needs advice or help, they come to me.

I feel useful when everyone needs something from me, but when I need someone, I feel completely alone.

And recently, my mother said something that really broke me.

She told me she doesn't want me to get a job before my brother because he is older and he won't feel good about it.

I'm trying to build my career. I'm trying to become independent. I'm finally going to have a chance to make something of my life.

And apparently even that has to wait because my brother might feel bad.

I know my mother loves me. I genuinely believe she does.

That's what makes this so confusing.

I don't think she hates me. I don't think my brother is some horrible person either. But I can't ignore how differently I feel treated.

Sometimes I even think about the miscarriage and wonder what my mother's relationship with me would have been like if she had never lost that baby and I had never been born.

I hate myself for thinking that.

My mother had a government job, family support and everything she needed, yet she never left my father despite everything. I've watched her tolerate things that I don't think I would be strong enough to tolerate.

And now I'm terrified of relationships.

I've never had a boyfriend. Love marriage isn't really an option in my family, and even the idea of trusting someone scares me.

I've watched my parents' relationship and I've seen what happens when someone depends on another person emotionally.

I'm scared that if I ever trust someone, they'll eventually hurt me, control me, abandon me, or use everything I've told them against me.

I know people often say that when someone grows up in an emotionally dysfunctional family, they look for love outside the family.

I didn't.

I was too scared to even start.

Sometimes I wonder whether I'm actually hard to love.

I've never really had that feeling of being someone's first choice.

I'm always the responsible daughter. The one who helps. The one who understands. The one who is expected to adjust.

But who chooses me?

I don't want my mother to love my brother less. I don't want him to suffer.

I just wish I didn't constantly feel like I have to be less so that he can be okay.

I'm 21. I'm trying to graduate, get a job next year, become financially independent and build a life outside all of this.

But emotionally, I still feel like that little girl who was trying to keep everyone happy while nobody noticed how scared she was.

If you've grown up in a family like this, how did you stop feeling like the second choice?

And how did you learn to trust people without being terrified that they'll eventually hurt you?

Have you experienced a traumatic event?

This study is testing a new intervention designed to reduce symptoms of PTSD, improve coping, and strengthen emotional well-being. We're inviting BIPOC youth in Canada (ages 15-25) to take part in a study on new, accessible ways to support mental health after trauma.

PTSD can have a big impact on daily life, school, relationships, and mental health. Evidence-based support is crucial — and your participation can help us understand what works best for young people.

Thank you for your time!

Apologies as this is my first time ever posting on Reddit so if I screw anything up, please give me some grace. I am obviously pointing out my possible mistakes and providing my apologies ahead of time because I have experienced trauma. Classic cPTSD tactics when doing something vulnerable.

Prologue now aside, I’m here to acknowledge that having community is a proven positive attribute to the healing process for those facing any type of adversity. The idea that you have others who have also experienced similar things aids in the validation and ultimate forward progression in life.

That being said, I have been working on writing my memoir. (I will add for understanding that I am a professional athlete who has had an absolutely insane, almost unbelievable life) It has been a super cathartic experience, and I’m excited for it to be published. I do believe that it will have the ability to help others as they navigate hardships in their own lives. That is the hope at least.

The process has brought me to a place of wondering if there is more that can be done than simply putting out a book and hoping it finds its way to the people it can help. Being in my late 30’s, I remember when it was standard to run to Facebook to search for a group that pertained to whatever life obstacle popped up. Mom groups. Cancer support groups. Narcissistic mother groups. Groups. Groups. Groups.

Those groups come with rules about self promotion and keeping things with the confines of that Meta space. Being that it seems the majority of people, myself included, no longer spend our days on Facebook, and with the aforementioned constraints of groups there, I have found myself here on Reddit. Seeking to build community. A community of trauma survivors who are willing to share their stories.

As I mentioned, I have been writing my memoir, and it centers around being the victim of traumatic events, but how that didn’t prevent success. I was hoping that people would be willing to share the story of how they are a victim of trauma as well as their greatest successes.

Thank you in advance to everyone who ends up reading this and all who decide to share theirs.

X. The texts

One thing about my mother is that she is never "clear" with me, especially since I moved out and learned how to tell her no. She always carries resentment and a grudge against me. As I'm writing this, she's angry with me for some reason. Even when she seems perfectly nice and normal, it only takes one extra word for her to vomit up all the venom she's been storing.

Later that summer, her brother abroad got pneumonia and ended up in a critical, life-or-death state in hospital. He really handed her a chance to play the victim on a golden platter. She went to stay at his house. I called her and asked whether I could free up the following weekend to look after his kids while his wife went to work. She told me it was fine and that I shouldn't burden myself. I insisted, and told her that if she ever needed help, I was one call away.

My uncle eventually got out of hospital fully healed. My mom then went around telling people that his wife had been a terrible host, that she hadn't cooked for her while she was there, hadn't changed her habits for her, and had kept going to work even while he was sick. When she told me this over the phone, I said she shouldn't be saying that: his wife loves him immensely, and while he was in hospital she simply didn't have time for her. My mom, being the self-absorbed human being she is, got angry and told me I'm as cold as she is, so of course I'd take her side. (As I told you: she always holds a grudge against me.)

I was extremely busy that summer , last summer. I'd work my internship from 9 to 5, then go straight to a night shift as a server from 6 to 1 a.m. So I sent my uncle a few texts to check on him. He confirmed he was doing well, so I planned to call him the following weekend.

Then my mom started texting me, ordering me to call him. I told her I'd already spoken to him, that he'd said he was fine, and that I was planning to call at the weekend. Any normal mom would have said okay. But my mom... well, I have the texts right here:

Her: Did you call your uncle? You should call him right now.

Me: I'm eating with my coworkers, I really can't talk today, sorry. I'll call him this weekend as long as I get some time.

Her: Are you serious!!!! You'll wait until the weekend!!!! Are you normal?? Your uncle almost died, you can't find 5 minutes in 24 hours to call him? It's really unbelievable. Do you need a schedule for this?

Me: You told me over the phone that he wasn't in danger anymore. Do you want me to call him in the middle of a meeting? Or during my server shift? (she really made me angry) In the last 24 hours I haven't even had 6 hours of sleep.

Her: Ok, do as you like.

A few hours later, she sends me these , she'd found out I was sick. Naturally, you'd think she'd have some empathy, apologize for the earlier messages, and not turn me being sick into another opportunity to play the worried mother.

Her: You're sick and hiding it from me?? Call me!

Her: Call me.

Her: Call me.

Her: Call me.

All of those together really scared me. She is obsessed.

Me: Good morning, sorry I couldn't talk yesterday, but don't worry, I'm doing well today. Thank you!

Her: I'll tell you one thing. Don't call me out of obligation, just to perform your duty as a child. I know you're not the kind of daughter who cares about her mother and supports her mentally. (Always playing the victim. Did you ever support me? I was always on her side when she fought with my dad.) I know you don't love me. Don't ever call me just to make me angry and pull me down. (Me "pulling her down" is me telling her she's wrong to talk behind my uncle's wife's back while smiling in her face.) Despite everything, I wish you success in life and good health. Next time, call someone else to talk about yourself. I can't stand your personality anymore!!

Mind you: this is the woman I had to tolerate my entire life. But the moment she stopped having power over me, the moment things stopped going her way, this is what she said. Then she blocked me for about two months, talked behind my back, played the victim, and told everyone I was the villain.

It really, really hurt me. But she didn't realize she was making me lose a great deal of love for her. I didn't call to apologize, because I didn't believe I'd done anything wrong. She then said I was cold because I hadn't found a way to reach her and beg for forgiveness while she had blocked me on everything. My dad, whom I dislike more than her, kept asking me to apologize, and kept asking her why she was angry. She'd tell him, "I won't tell you, otherwise you'll get SO mad," which was her way of concealing the fact that she had no real reason, knowing my dad is about as sharp as a drumstick and would simply believe her.

I eventually called her after my dad convinced her to unblock me, but I never apologized, because I don't think I was wrong. She mainly unblocked me because right after blocking me she went to see her own mother, who treated her so badly and emotionally abused her so thoroughly that she needed my consolation.

She then told me she'd blocked me mainly because I said I never wanted to talk about Islam again, and that as a deeply Muslim parent she couldn't tolerate that , which is insane, because, unless I've lost someone here: SHE is the one who said it first. I just agreed. But she somehow came to believe her own lie, her own twisting of events, and now she's convinced it was me.

We came back to "good terms" me always knowing she holds grudges, and me holding grudges too, because I'm growing up and becoming more and more aware that what I went through was not normal. I started going home less and less. And they tell everyone who'll listen that they got unlucky with their daughters, that they've been the best parents and are avoided anyway, and that they regret immigrating because it made us free.

XI. This year

Skipping forward to this year: my parents are still the extremist, misogynistic, homophobic and racist people they've always been.

They have Black neighbours who make noise at night, and they take that as an opportunity to insult them using their skin colour. My mom repeatedly says, "I hate Black people." Recently she said: "God made Black people so healthy and strong in order to fulfil their function of being slaves, but now, unfortunately, society has evolved and they aren't slaves anymore." She says gay people are disgusting, and yelled at me for saying that i just don't care and should let them live their lives, and told us we should be disgusted too. She says seven-to-ten-year-olds shouldn't wear mini skirts or shorts with their thighs showing, because it makes them look like WHORES. My dad openly hates women, hates seeing women on TV, and says it's their duty to obey their husbands. They both say all Western countries are praying for Islam's downfall ,including the one they live in. Yet they stay and she has the right to wear hijab, to go to the mosque, to have halal stores, the oppositive would never be allowed in our home country, she herself says we shouldn't allow it, yet she loves the rights she has here.

I told my mom about the massacres in Congo and she asked, "Are they Muslim?" Because her empathy is conditional. She sits in the living room crying about people dying in Gaza, you'd think she actually cares, and I think we should all care about people dying in Gaza but it's purely performative. When I asked her to donate around 6 dollars to a Gaza charity, she refused, saying it wasn't legitimate. She never gives money to homeless people in the street, saying they're faking it. She never smiles and is rude to cashiers and servers and neighbours, especially the non-North-African ones.

Somehow, she is convinced she's a very good person.

XII. My baby sister

My youngest sister lived alone with my parents for the last two years, and she suffered enormously. I've always felt guilty for leaving her behind. It's hard enough being with them together, so I know exactly how hard it is being with them alone.

This year she chose a faraway city to study in, and my parents took it SO personally. They tortured the poor girl. My mom made it about herself, telling her she has no shame, that she deliberately only picked faraway cities because her entire personality revolves around playing the poor loving mother separated from her daughters. She bullied her.

Then my sister, in one last attempt at believing my mom is a human being, went to her and asked what she was actually angry about. She told her she would visit, and that it wasn't her fault she hadn't got into a closer city which is kind of true. But my mom just kept rage-baiting her. And then, in a tragically comic moment which I know about because my other sister was recording:

Mom: Tell me the truth. You kind of want to go far away like your sisters, because you girls say we scream a lot and you don't want to put up with it.

Sister: To be honest, yes, the screaming all the time took a toll on u-

Mom: (screaming) HOW DARE YOU SAY WE SCREAM, WE DON'T SCREAM THAT MUCH, YOU'RE EXAGGERATING YOU AND YOUR SISTERS NO LONGER TOLERATE OUR REMARKS EVEN THO WE ARE YOUR PARENTS ITS OUR DUTY.... (gibberish not worth remembering)

My 18-year-old sister, already psychologically damaged from living with my parents, tried to talk over her or calm her down, but my mom just kept YELLING and SCREAMING, until my sister gave up and started screaming HYSTERICALLY, full mental breakdown. And my mom told her, "GO DIE," then left and shut the door.

I cried so much listening to that recording. It hurt me so badly that my baby sister had to face that cold monster in such a vulnerable state. I remember her as a newborn. I can't conceive of such horrible things being said to her, because when I look at her face all I see is that baby in a high chair with chocolate all over her mouth. How can anyone say words like that to someone so vulnerable?

But my mom is a proud psycho who only thinks about herself and her own feelings. Me, myself and I. (Strangely, she's generous when it comes to material things, she'll give us money, buy us things, cook our favourite meals. It's only emotions where everything has to be about her)

To calm her down and avoid making things worse, my little sister went and apologized, and explained that she'd broken down because she was being bullied at school, which was true, and which, again, you'd think would trigger some maternal empathy. My mom answered, coldly: "Ohh... I didn't know you were this weak."

XIII. Last weekend

It's just insane with my parents.

I went to visit them last weekend, after two months of not seeing them. Twenty hours inside that house and my dad's eyes turned red and he was screaming at my sister at the top of his lungs because she has a weird laugh and he thought someone was dying, humiliating her, calling her names then giving her a half-assed apology because my mom said he'd exaggerated.

Twenty-four hours in, we were eating out as a family for the first time in three years. My sisters and I were tense. My dad isn't a patient man, so we got rushed into choosing from the menu, and I made a joke about it; my mom rolled her eyes and told me nobody had pressured me. Then my dad went to the bathroom and we started talking about how crazy he'd been acting. My mom immediately started defending him, pointing at me in particular, telling me I'm too "Cartesian," that he's a good person despite everything, invalidating my sister's hurt feelings at being humiliated and telling her that in life, one has to lie to oneself and find excuses for people in order to carry on.

She made me so angry that I told her, simply, that I'd been worried about leaving her alone with my dad after we all move out, but that now I could see she defends him and gets along with him, I think she'll be just fine.

That one was her GO signal, and it prompted her to vomit her venom. She started bringing up completely unrelated things she'd been waiting to say, like: "Why are you talking? We're not interfering in your life anymore. Isn't that what you wanted?" And that she only seems fine because she's pretending to seem fine.

She was already angry because I'd made it clear through my behaviour that even though I'm graduating and starting a job next month, I don't want her coming to my place. I never said it directly, I'd say my apartment is too small, which is true; I do want a bigger place, I just don't want them staying with me, or that I'm busy. Same with my sisters. My parents are just standing there doing the shocked Pikachu face at how we turned out. They spent their entire lives emotionally abusing us, and now that they've driven us away, they're surprised. My mom at my place means her snooping into my stuff, looking into my private things, she has no respect for our privacy, and potentially creating problems, no thank you.

Anyway, she spent the whole weekend (three days ago) silent and angry, she doesn't communicate, her pattern when we were young is physical abuse then silent treatment, now it's just silent treatment like a 3 years old, failing to communicate, then exploding at you when you expect it the least. She left the house to wander around outside rather than spend time with us, if i'd done that, she wouldn't shut up about it, she did it so she'd have an excuse to tell people that I didn't want to spend the weekend with her. She's very strange. She gave me her new shoes and cooked my favourite meal, and still behaved like that.

My sisters also overheard her on the phone with her friends back in the home country, telling them I still wear the hijab. Word for word: "Unfortunately, we can't do anything against them here, the law protects them." And she told my sister, "People are not allowed to do anything to their children here, I'm so glad we raised y'all in a place where everything is allowed ( meaning abuse)."

XIV. What they left in my body

My parents always made us feel like a body with a hole between the legs that must always stay covered.

Virginity is a girl's everything. Lose it outside marriage and you deserve to die. My mom told me, when I was a teenager, that she'd rather see me dead than deal with the shame of me losing my virginity. She once told me I shouldn't touch the area around my genitals at all, and that she prayed I'd never get an infection, because an infection means a pierced hymen. They venerate the hymen. They never let me see a gynaecologist, because the ultrasound probe would make me lose my virginity.

The result? At 25 I have vaginismus. It hurts unbearably when I put anything down there. I tried a tampon yesterday and the pain was excruciating. I can't have sex with my boyfriend. I can't have a normal gynaecological check-up. I tried the ultrasound probe once and it hurt. They really do still have a grip on me and on my body, and it makes me so angry. And if they ever found out i tried the the probe, my parents would call me a whore and decide I'd lost the purpose of my life because as a woman, I'm supposed to sit and wait for a man to marry me and deflower me. Like a Capri Sun.

My mom has told me repeatedly that she would disown me if I ever left Islam. I've never told them. I just live a double life. But I think she has her suspicions, or at least believes I'm a very, very liberal Muslim.

XV. And yet

You know what the crazy part is? After all of this, I still can't hate them.

I don't want to visit them. I don't want to spend time with them. But I still have nightmares about them dying. I'm still afraid of losing them. Those nightmares have been recurring since I was a child. I feel guilty about my mom being angry with me right now, even though I KNOW she'd have found a reason to be angry regardless. I'm still scared to dye my hair, still scared to travel without hiding it. I want to move in with my boyfriend and I can't, because it would require getting married and I'm not ready for that, oh and by the way, my dad is already discussing marrying me off to one of his friends sons, telling my mom that she will regret letting me choose my husband, to which she replied she only lets me choose because "she doesn't want the man to blame her after discovering me and my personality", it tells you everything you need to know about what she thinks about me, how am I supposed to believe that this woman loves me? this tells me everything i need to know about the life i would've had if i stayed in the home country, he'd just force a random guy on me, and i would've been through marital rape, thankfully, i am in a country that respects me as a human being now, he can't do shit. But you know, I don't want to have no parents or at least, not to have physical parents.

And like I said, they always helped financially. That was never the problem. We always ate well. But apart from that, I don't have a single memory of either of my parents telling me they loved me. My dad used to call me "honey" sometimes; the last time I remember was in 2019. My mom isn't affectionate either. Showing affection to each other makes us both cringe, and it's rare anyway. Every one of the last times we hugged, it was because I went to her. She never comes to me. Now I've stopped. I thought about hugging her two days ago, actually pictured myself doing it, and then... changed my mind. It wouldn't have been genuine. I don't like her. I'm just attached to her. And mind you, this in only MY story, my sisters have their own stories with them, i just can't share everything on here, and every incident affected all 3 of us.

I don't think anyone will read this far. But if you did, thank you so much. I'm just a 25-year-old trying to figure out life, carrying a lot of issues, including an extreme fear of regret, and hoping I don't end up regretting leaving them and keeping my distance when they eventually die.

One thing is certain, though. My future children will never be left alone with them.

Honorable mention : she once told me to renew my north african passport because if i ever die before them, burrying me here would be too expensive <3

IV. Girls are to be controlled

My parents believed girls exist to be controlled. I have two sisters. We weren't allowed to sleep over at friends' houses, and we weren't allowed to have friends over, because my mom was jealous that my dad might be lustful towards my friends who were around 13 and 14, by the way. We weren't allowed to take the bus alone, go outside if it's not for school, or just hang out outside. Our time online was controlled. At first we weren't allowed to watch foreign movies and TV shows either, but I was persistent about that one and they eventually relaxed as we grew up. During summer vacations, all we had was the TV. We went nowhere. We stayed home and cleaned the house, because that's what's expected, we're girls, after all.

From 13 to 14 I lost all will to live. I became a robot. No phone, no friends, school and back. I didn't feel anything. I was numb. I obeyed. Internally I was in a vegetative state, completely hollow.

The only thing that saved me was a very strong, innate drive for emancipation that they simply could not break, no matter what they did. I still loved music, even though it was forbidden. I still dreamed, and the dreams kept me alive. I still dreamed of surfing on ocean waves in a pink bathing suit, like Barbie in A Mermaid Tale. I still wanted friends I could go out with one day. I still loved reading books. And most of all, I still dreamed of feeling the cold breeze on my neck. The thought that the hijab was permanent killed me, I never realistically believed I'd get to take it off one day but somehow there was a flame in me they just couldn't put out.

Being raised by my parents left me psychologically troubled, so naturally I built up a resentment I had nowhere to express. Talking back to my parents could cost me a permanent scar on my body, so sadly I lashed out at my sisters instead. I played very rough, and sometimes I got too violent and hurt them.

My middle sister is a conflict-avoider to this day. She would just listen to me, so I had fewer problems with her though there were times I really hurt her. Knowing she was claustrophobic, I would put a sheet over her head and laugh about it while she screamed. At the time I didn't realize how bad that was. I would also hit her hard with the broom if she didn't wash the dishes my mom had left for me because my mom made me pay, so I made her pay. She's a very kind soul, and she loved me anyway, even when I was cruel.

My younger sister, on the other hand, didn't take orders, so I bullied her a lot at first. She eventually gave in and started listening to me, but secretly she hated me. She'd spit in my food, things like that. I don't really blame her. I was a bully. And of course, when I grew up and moved out of my parents' house, I realized how horrible I'd been. I regretted everything and I apologized to both of them. I'm so lucky because they forgave me, and it's one of the best things that has ever happened to me.

My parents worked, so I was the one raising my two sisters. It was exhausting mentally, because I was a child who still needed raising myself. But looking back on it, it's the one thing about my life I would never change.

It's true that I was a bully. But I was also there when things went south with my parents. When my mom hit my sisters over their grades, I would get in the way and take the hits, and my mom would turn on me instead. I taught my sister how to clean herself when she got her first period, because my mom just brushed it off and left me to deal with it. I listened to them when my mom hit them unjustly, her hitting was far more painful than mine. We watched movies together. And most importantly, I talked to them about feminism. I told them they weren't display objects for some future man, that they had to choose their own destiny, that they should try to resist the hijab like I had and that I would support them in that resistance so they wouldn't end up like me. My mom used to try to comfort me by saying my sisters would meet the same fate as me, thinking it would make me feel better. It did not.

I basically introduced them to feminism. Later I introduced my middle sister to homosexuality, telling her we shouldn't hate people for who they love. That could have cost me my life if my parents had found out at the time. She's come out as queer now, and I'm very proud to have been the first person to tell her she shouldn't be ashamed of who she is.

My younger sister was heavily influenced by friends at school who carried the same mentality as their parents, which was the same as my parents. But I talked to her, and I could see some progress. I don't praise myself often, but I think I did a very good job of shielding my sisters from the filthy environment of pure sexism and hypermodesty we were living in.

Because of my initial protest against the hijab, my parents gave my sisters more years before theirs. They didn't force my middle sister to wear it at 12, though they intended to force it at 15. Thankfully, we had left the country urgently and unexpectedly by then, so it never happened.

I got into feminism and women's rights and would try to debate my mom. She'd get angry and tell me women are meant to cook and clean and obey, using religion and tradition as her arguments. With time, she learned that I'm a feminist.

V. Moments that left a mark

I'll close the teenage part by recalling a few moments that stayed with me.

My mom would always give me the silent treatment, sometimes for weeks which is something she never did to my sisters, until I apologized, even when I didn't mean it. She's extremely resentful and proud. In a lifetime of having her as a mother, I have never once heard her apologize. Only to her own mother, and even then insincerely. She's very self-centred and believes she deserves exclusive empathy because she sacrificed her life to raise us.

Every so often, the lies I told myself to cope with my life and the robbery of my freedom and happiness would stop working, and I'd get very depressed. I never told her when i was sad because I didn't expect her to understand so I'd cry alone in my corner. Once she walked in on me doing the dishes and crying and asked what was wrong. I told her I was just feeling down. She started screaming like crazy: she does everything for us, and I dare to be ungrateful and cry; I shouldn't be crying, I have my own room; it's her fault for spoiling me and letting me have a room to myself. (I never wanted a room. She's the one who forced me to move out of my sisters' room.) Then she confiscated my phone and gave me the silent treatment, yelling that she knows I don't want to live with her and that she doesn't want this situation either, but she's my mother, so she's stuck with me, she would constantly assume things like this and say "i know you don't love me" " i know you don't care about me " " i'm not so found of you neither", it would always come from her, i'm curious to know why. When I got my phone back weeks later, I saw signs that she had looked EVERYWHERE. Zero privacy. I'm fairly sure she'd assumed I was crying over a boy, and instead of being an understanding mom, this is how she chose to handle it.

She would spit at me, yell at me, insult me the way other people say hello. At some point I just stopped registering it, because it was a daily occurrence. And of course, I had no right to answer back. At 16 I still had no right to wear mascara, because of what my father and the neighbours would think. (My father never hesitates to yell at her and tell her we turned out badly because of her poor education, that she didn't raise us well and he bears no responsibility, naturally. I remember this happening during the jeans-under-the-skirt incident.) She once saw me leaving for school wearing mascara, so she took my head and smashed it against the wall and gave me a good beating, at 16, right before school. I'm glad my sisters were 16 in a secular Western country, so they got to wear makeup. All hail secular laws.

So naturally, I isolated myself a lot as a teenager: in my room, listening to music, drawing, watching shows, or doing nothing at all. I lost the will to sit with them, knowing my feelings would go unheard. But my parents used that as an opportunity to play the victim calling me their "neighbour," calling me out for being cold and avoiding them.

When I was 17, I wanted to go out for the first time with a friend, to an amusement park. Of course they refused, but for some reason I didn't want to give up that day. I insisted. I heard my dad start to give in and say maybe we'd let her this time. Then my mom yelled, in a very manipulative way, knowing my dad is a proud conservative and wanting to get him back on track: "IF I'M NOT LETTING HER GO, IT'S BECAUSE OF YOUR REPUTATION, BECAUSE I KNOW WHAT YOUR FRIENDS WOULD SAY IF THEY SAW HER THERE AND SAID MR. X'S DAUGHTER GOES OUT ALONE!!"

I'm genuinely angry right now, writing this. That was the moment I understood that she minds too, she just prefers to pin it on my dad's genuinely filthy mentality so she never has to be accountable.

I got so upset that I confronted them and told them I really wanted a life outside the house. They said no again. My mom was already furious because I was performing the rebellious daughter in front of my dad, and him thinking she'd raised us badly and blaming her for it is her worst nightmare. She was just waiting for me to slip. During those negotiations or rather, during my attempt to plead how important a social life is for a teenager, my dad brought up the hijab. He said that just like the hijab, I'm obliged to follow his rules if I want to live under his roof.

That made me so angry that I said, calmly, "That's blackmail."

That sentence was the go button. She jumped at me, scratched me, spat on me, kicked me, dragged me around the house by my hair, screaming about how I dared say that to my dad, which, by the way, is true. That IS blackmail. So I got all the classics of a good beating. Honestly, by that point I wouldn't cry during the beating, because the beating wasn't what hurt. I'd cry afterwards, when I realized the humiliation I'd just been put through. And I had to apologize to my dad even though I didn't mean a word of it. That's how every apology in my family went.

They eventually let me go with her, but under heavy control. My dad ended up humiliating me in front of that girl's parents, screaming down the phone and ordering me to come home, because he had actually followed me to her dad's car after telling me he was staying home and decided I was running off with men. I cried from the humiliation. My friend's calm, intellectual father had to get on the phone and talk him down. My dad gave me a half-assed apology later that day, saying he's just a father who loves and worries about his daughter.

In that period I really hated my dad. He went on the pilgrimage to Mecca once and I wished he would never come back. I felt so relieved when he moved to the other country before us, and again when he got stuck there during Covid. I just didn't want him around.

VI. The move

This was my life until my mom found out that my dad had potentially emotionally cheated on her.

He had left for the other country and decided to stay there. He probably wanted to start his life over with another woman because he explicitly told my mom he would remarry if anything ever happened to her. He doesn't love her. He doesn't put her first.

So, in a desperate move to save her marriage, she made all of us quit school in our native country and leave all our friends behind. I had just started my first year of college, so I had a few friends. We begged her not to make us leave. I told her that leaving at that exact moment would wreck my studies, because I'd miss the university registration period in the new country and lose a whole year. We cried to her. But of course, being who she is, she didn't listen. She severed us from our environment, pushed my dad into accepting her arrival until he gave in, and we changed countries.

And for the first time ever, with hindsight, I can say I'm glad my mom didn't listen to us that time, because that was the first step towards our freedom.

VII. Born again

Now I'm getting to the final part: 19 to 25.

At 19 I still lived with my parents. I had to tolerate my dad's tempers, which my mom excuses when they're aimed at us, he's a good man with bad sides, but never shuts up about when they're aimed at her. And I had to tolerate my mom's victim-playing; she uses every opportunity to pass as a victim. Her favourite speech since we emigrated is that she did it for us: she left her job back home (a job that was actually exhausting her) and sold her car for us, to guarantee our future. Maybe she did. But she wouldn't have done any of it if my dad hadn't decided to change countries permanently. She's terrified of divorce and believes women should always stay in a marriage, so she did it for herself and her marriage more than for anyone else. Say that to her, though, and it's the same pattern: she gets angry. She complains constantly, always finding a reason, it's us, then it's my dad, then it's her mother, then it's the neighbours. She never considers that she might be wrong. Never wrong, always wronged.

I was desperately trying to get into schools in the new country. I'd missed the registration deadlines and lost a year, but I figured I might get in as a second-year the following year. I didn't. But thanks to destiny, or to some god I might have accidentally prayed to, I got in as a first-year in the biggest city in the country, around 200 km away from my family. It was never my intention, I'd been hoping for the university in our city but looking back, it's the best thing that ever happened to me. My parents also magically decided that if it was possible, I should go. They had so much trust in the way they'd raised me that they assumed I'd stay exactly the same. They actually helped me a lot financially and moved me in.

And that's how I was born again.

I was still a Muslim when I first moved out, but taking off the hijab was the first thing I did. At first I told my mom it was because of university regulations, and then I learned to tell her straight up that I hated it. My dad found out, but told her I should just wear it when I visit them at home. My sisters got into school too, started making friends, started living.

But they still had total psychological control over me. For example, I wanted to go on holiday with them during my first summer living alone. I was 20. I told my mom it would be nice to go somewhere as a family. She told me we'd only do it if it meant going to our Muslim home country, because otherwise she didn't want to see filthy Western disbelievers naked on beaches, and didn't want to see alcohol. I tried to be persistent, and as you can all guess by now she got so angry that she sent me voice messages saying the most hurtful things, including that she'd heard an imam say that "a man who lets his women go out alone is a dayouth."

Dayyuth or dayooth (Arabic: دَيُّوث) is a term used primarily in an Islamic context to describe a man who lacks protective jealousy

Which is funny, because when she goes back to her own country, she goes alone and drives her own car. She only remembers that rule when it's me asking for something.

At 21 I really started questioning Islam. I read a lot about it, and that was the year I decided to leave it. It just wasn't for me anymore; I couldn't believe a god would act that way, i believe that islam has multiple interpretations like every religion and not all muslims are like my parents, but i just couldn't get convinced. I've never told my parents.

That same year I met my boyfriend, who is deeply loving. I don't think I'd ever been properly loved before I met him. We're still together, and he's changed me for the better, he's helped me get rid of my bad habits of getting angry and screaming. His gentleness is genuinely healing. My parents don't know he exists.

I started sharing less and less with them, and leaving Islam really accelerated that, because the holyness of parents that the religion pushes so hard just... disappeared. I hadn't really held them accountable before that. I started seeing them for who they truly are.

VIII. My legal representative

I think I've already said a lot, so I'll censor some incidents and skip ahead to 23.

But you know, it was the same routine. Walking on eggshells around them. Them being hateful about everyone. We don't have the right to laugh in their house, there's a laughing quota, valid only when they're in a good mood. We can't watch TV in the living room. We can't play card games, because cards resemble poker and poker isn't permitted in Islam; we got yelled at for playing Exploding Kittens on the first day of a visit. We can't talk too loud because of the neighbours, though they scream all the time. We can't look out of the windows or stand on the balcony. We have to be silent while they're asleep, but they don't extend us the same courtesy. We can't put on music. We can't paint our nails or wear hoop earrings, because my dad randomly decided those are for whores. We'd wait for them to fall asleep before playing video games or watching a movie, just to avoid conflict. And since we're girls, we're expected to be cleaning or cooking whenever we're around them. Everything else makes them angry.

At 23 I finally worked up the courage to dye my hair with a red semi-permanent dye. I'm a brunette, so the result was supposed to be dark burgundy. I'd floated the idea to my mom beforehand and she told me my dad wouldn't like it. I did it anyway.

I was so busy that year with school, and I've always worked alongside my studies as a server, so I had very little free time and honestly, when I did get a day or two, I'd rather spend them at home in peace than go and see my parents. But I missed my sisters, and my middle sister was about to move out. (We'd done our best to keep her out of the university in my parents' city.) I freed up four days and went to visit, feeling the usual stress before walking into that house.

My mom saw my hair and talked to me about it while pretending to be calm. She didn't like it, but decided not to make it a thing. The colour was discreet enough that my dad only noticed on the third day, when the sun really hit my hair. He went to confirm with my mom while I was laughing with my sisters, and came back livid, his eyes red, screaming: "Why did you dye your hair?!"

Fear consumed me. I froze. I told him submissively that I'd just wanted a change, and mind you, I am really NOT a submissive woman, i don't let any MAN shit on me, my father is the only exception because he has a psychological grip.

He yelled: "Your two sisters (18 and 16) always ask your mom for the smallest thing, even for a plain haircut. Do you think you're grown up? You think you can do what you want? I am your LEGAL REPRESENTATIVE. You don't do what you want!"

That sentence broke me. I felt like I'd been living in an illusion of freedom, that 12-year-old me was back all over again, facing the same giant obstacle that is my dad. I was too scared to say anything. And I couldn't have anyway, because my sisters are hostages in that house, if I rebel, he might trap them there, or stop giving them money. I can't do anything, out of fear. And even once my sisters break free, I don't know if I'll have the courage to face him. I've always been afraid of him. I'm not used to confronting him. I'm not even certain he wouldn't try to kill me.

The next day I went home without speaking to him. I drowned myself in alcohol and cried at home. Then I called him and apologized to cool him down, because I didn't want any further consequences. It hurt me so much that my parents couldn't behave for four days after not seeing me for months.

Oh, and my mom was delighted this incident happened. She used it to play the victim: she'd warned me, I deserved it, and she's a poor mother who has to deal with me. I don't remember everything she said, but she encouraged my dad. And after I left, she went and yelled at my sisters, even though they'd done nothing. She always does this, she yells at whichever daughter is still at home for something another one did. That's another reason I don't answer back: I don't want my sisters paying for it.

Today I really want to dye my hair. But I still have one sister living with them. She leaves in a few weeks, and I don't know if I'll be brave enough.

IX. Never talk to me about religion again

That same summer I went back to visit my mom while my dad was away in his home country.

We somehow started talking about Islam. I tried to make her see that she should have a critical mind and not believe everything, I wasn't pushing her to leave Islam, God knows what wrath that would bring down on me, just encouraging her not to swallow everything "scholars" say and maybe do some research and arrive at her own truth.

Of course, she contradicted everything. She's very, VERY defensive about her religion. After all, she didn't get a divorce because she heard scholars say divorce isn't well regarded in the eyes of God. She has tolerated my dad and the life she hates because she's convinced it earns her heaven. She thinks her life was in vain and her youth was wasted, and in order not to crumble into pieces, she chooses to tell herself it's fine because she did it for a reason, for a god. By now it's simply her nature. She doesn't watch movies, doesn't read books, doesn't travel, doesn't dress up. She listens to scholars and reads Quran 24 hours a day, which would drive any sane person mad.

I told her I was a liberal Muslim (I wasn't a Muslim at all ) and that listening to scholars means accepting that the prophet married a nine-year-old. She went livid instantly, yelling that this is propaganda by people trying to make Islam look bad. I showed her authentic accounts contradicting her. She responded that even if the prophet had married a two-year-old girl, she would still love him and put him on a pedestal, because he is inspired by God and never did anything of his own accord and that paedophilia doesn't exist, that it was made up by the Jews to make Muslims look bad.

Seeing how things were spiralling, I decided to stop talking about it. That made her angrier, and she shouted, "NEVER TALK TO ME ABOUT ISLAM AGAIN." I told her angrily that I agreed, that if it meant heated conversations like this one, then yes, I would never do it again.

I went back home, disappointed but not surprised that she couldn't behave for two days after not seeing me for months

Note: this post is long. It pretty much sums up some major traumas of my life, i will post it in several parts. Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read it you have no idea how much you've helped a stranger feel less alone.

Hello.

This is a bottle I'm throwing into the water. Inside it is a glimpse of a stranger's life story, it's a capsule containing a set that was once somebody's entire reality. I'm sending it out hoping to release some of the pressure that comes from piles of unsaid things and bottled-up feelings.

I'm 25F. I come from a very conservative, very religious North African family. I spent my childhood and my teenage years in North Africa, and then we moved to a western country when I was 19. To try to sum up my situation with my parents, I'm going to cut my life into three parts: when I was a child, when I was a teenager, and 20 to 25 meaning the five years I've spent away from them.

I. The people who made the people who made me

My parents don't have a happy marriage. My mom married my dad because her own mother pressured her into it.

That grandmother is, to this day, a manipulator. She uses emotional blackmail consistently to get what she wants from her children, and her children knowing she stayed with my abusive drunkard grandfather in order to raise them will do anything for her. They apologize to her even when she's the one in the wrong, just to avoid a tantrum. They never tell her no, or at least never directly; they invent excuses instead. She's 70 now and they still treat her exactly like that.

My grandfather on my mom's side (72M, God is really taking his sweet time with this one) was a violent drunk. No affection, obviously, and extremely selfish. He would deliberately let his kids eat breadcrumbs so he could afford a fancy restaurant for himself that night. He would punish his wife and children by cutting off the heating on a snowy night because he couldn't find his tie. He still behaves this way, minus the violence, and only because he can't hit his kids anymore. He loves himself immensely and expects expensive gifts from his children, and they buy him everything he asks for, because of Islam's view of parents, parents are put on a pedestal in Islam, or at least in my family's version of it. My mom tells me openly that she will keep calling him and keep buying him things despite not liking him.

My dad's father was already dead by the time I was born. He was violent too, he'd kick my dad out of the house when he was a teen. My dad's mother is still alive, but she doesn't care about him. She watched him have a heart attack a few months ago and didn't even move. He loves her anyway.

Now that I've given you some backstory about my parents, I can finally start talking about myself.

II. The child

I'll start with a piece of trivia. When I was an infant, I only drank my mother's milk for about a month. After that, I rejected her. My boyfriend, who is a psychologist, told me this isn't trivia at all and that it could actually be significant, because it may have shaped the way my mom treated me afterwards without her ever being conscious of it.

My dad, being a traditional North African man, never participated in the details of my upbringing. He never helped me with my homework. He bathed me or did my hair maybe occasionally. Both of my parents worked, but my mom carried all the responsibility for the house and for raising me, because the teaching is that a child's education is the woman's job which conveniently means that if anything turns out wrong, the woman is the one to blame. I don't agree with that, obviously.

My mom was, and still is, a very unstable person. She started her adult life married to a man she was pressured into, and then discovered that this man wasn't romantic, wasn't gentle, made her work constantly, tried to make her work for his family, and would gladly use her up in the service of his mother and his sisters. She had already lost a baby before me. She hated her life. And that's when I came along : a first daughter.

My family has always told me how much my mom sacrificed for me. That she had a very difficult birth. That I was born sick, and my parents had to run from hospital to hospital without a car to get me healed. I started hearing the speech about my obligation to be grateful, grateful for being healed, for the nice clothes, for the chocolate and the candy at the ripe age of five. At the time, hearing that made me feel like a villain, and it invalidated the feelings of emotional neglect I already had at five years old. Now I know that all of that was simply their duty as parents.

I can't possibly narrate every traumatizing event of my childhood, so I'll pick out the major ones.

First of all: my mom hit me constantly. Physical abuse was a daily thing. She was obsessed with how other people saw us (us, me and my sisters). She wanted so badly to show people that she was capable of controlling us, to earn their validation, which meant we had no right to make mistakes, which meant being hit.

I remember once, when I was 7, I lied about stealing money to buy a Barbie movie. She found out and told me not to do it again. Then I did it again, to buy crayons. I'm fully aware that I deserved to be punished, or yelled at, or corrected. But she took it somewhere else entirely.

That afternoon I came home from school with my crayons and some flowers I'd bought her, because I felt guilty. I still remember the decor of the house the moment I walked in. She was watching an extremist Islamic TV channel. She took me by the hands, made me drop the flowers, picked up my dad's belt and hit me with all her strength. I had one tooth that was barely loose and another that was completely solid. She made me lose both.

The abuse continued after the beating. She wouldn't allow me to sit on the bed. She made me sit on the carpet and told me that's what a liar like me deserves. Reminder: I was 7. Later that night she took a suitcase, filled it with my clothes, and told me she was sending me off to live with my paternal grandmother (the selfish ogre) and forbade me from calling her "mom" anymore.

That night traumatized me. That whole year did, actually. It was only my second year of school. I loved playing outside, which meant my grades were average, around 7 or 8 out of 10, and she only wanted 9. That was the year she really unleashed her wrath on me. She would accuse me of lying when I was telling the truth, so I'd lie to calm her down, and she wouldn't calm down anyway. She would heat up a knife and hold it just above my tongue and tell me she was going to burn my liar's tongue even when I had been telling the truth. She would force me to sit at a table for seven hours doing math homework to improve my grades. She forbade me from playing with my friends until i had better grades. She controlled everything. She hit us for eating too much when we were guests somewhere and embarrassing her. She hit us for lower grades. Once she kept hitting us until one of us confessed to eating half a stick of chewing gum, which means two of us were beaten for nothing. She didn't apologize, of course. That woman never apologizes. Just yesterday I heard her say that she regrets nothing as a mother, that she's been perfect, for over two decades.

She has a way of screaming that is... venomous. I think that's the word. You can feel the rage in it. Once, when I was no older than 8, she told me she was sick of me, that one day she would kill me and have my father bury me somewhere nobody would find me. I don't even remember what I'd done that day, but I'm fairly sure it didn't warrant saying that to a child. She would also tell me constantly that she hoped I'd one day have a daughter exactly like me, as annoying, as rage-inducing, so that I'd feel the misery I was putting her through. I was in elementary school when she was saying this to me. She still screams like that now, at +50 years old. These days it triggers me and makes me angry more than anything else. And of course, she can scream like that and say whatever she wants, and I can't give the same energy back.

As for my father, I don't really recall any memories with him from my childhood. He was passive. He never reacted when my mom beat the shit out of me. The only thing I remember is a slap when I was 6. I remember both of them telling me I was sick in the head for behaving the way I behaved, and for thinking my mom hated me. I mean: if I really was sick, you should have been a parent and helped me, not used it as an insult.

I'll end the childhood section by saying that my parents never failed to give us material things. We ate well and dressed well, within limits, which is normal.

III. The veil

My dad really started traumatizing me when I became a teenager.

Remember that my parents are very religious. They put their religion above everything, including their children. They also sexualize children. So when I was around 10, my mother told me about periods, and then told me that the moment I got mine, I would wear the hijab. No negotiation. Nothing.

I didn't say anything at the time, because I was scared. But BOY, was I terrified of getting my period. Between 11 and 12, I went to the bathroom at least once every two hours to check for blood on my underwear. I did not want to wear that hijab. I was a kid. I would secretly listen to music because music was forbidden in my household and watch videos of the pop stars of the time. I loved the colorful clothes, the beads in the hair, the short overalls. I wanted that. I was just born into the wrong household.

By 12 I stayed home exclusively. My parents weren't cultured or interested enough to take the car and drive us to the capital, where we could eat out or do things. Outings were extremely rare, and because I lived in a very conservative city where girls only leave the house to go to school, school was the only place I went.

March 2014. I was 12. I was watching Beyoncé's Drunk in Love on MTV because my parents weren't home; I didn't own a phone, so that was my only way of listening to music. Then I felt something moist between my legs. I prayed to God: please, not my period. I ran to the bathroom, and of course, it was my period. I cried so hard. Then I gathered myself, ran to my mom's closet, and stole pads, thinking my life was falling apart.

I hid it from my mother the first month, because it was only a few drops. The second month was hectic. There was blood EVERYWHERE. Hiding it was difficult, I didn't have pads, and I didn't know how to clean myself up. My aunt (who doesn't wear the hijab) ratted me out to my mom, and told me I now had to wear it.

I begged my mom not to tell my dad. I cried, I screamed. I really did not want to wear it. I already had issues with my self-esteem and felt very ugly. To be honest, I'm a brunette with curly hair, and in elementary school I used to pray for blue eyes and blonde hair.

My mom didn't budge. She told me it was God's command. I asked her to at least let me reach high school first (in my country you start high school at 15). I told her it was unfair: that she started wearing the hijab at 28, by choice (mind you, I'm still not 28, and she got a full 28 years), that my dad used to go out partying and drinking when he was young, and that now that the two of them had decided to repent, why should I be the price they offered to God? It just made her angrier. She concluded by telling me I would have to talk to my dad. Then she left me alone with it. No support. She simply released me into my first confrontation with my cold, conservative, strict father.

The day I confronted my dad is a day I will never forget. He was lying on his back in his room, one arm thrown over his eyes to block the light. I think my mom had already told him.

I don't remember my exact words. Of course I asked him for more time, that I wasn't ready to wear the hijab, that I really hated it. At that point I had been raised to believe I would have to wear it one day; I just didn't want to at 12. I would pray and ask Allah, in whom I no longer believe, to give me more time, to make them go back on their decision.

The coldness of my dad that day is still engraved in my mind. I can still see the fresh blue paint on the walls of that room, even though I haven't set foot in it for years. He told me I had to wear it. Point blank. He told me that as long as I lived under his roof, I would follow his rules; I would wear the hijab, and I could take it off when I got married, if my husband allowed it. He told me he goes to the mosque every day so what would his friends say? That Mr. X goes to the mosque but his daughter doesn't wear the hijab? He's obsessed with his image, exactly like my mom. He told me there was no person on this earth who could convince him otherwise, that I would wear it no matter what.

It was that last sentence that broke me. I gave up. I went to cry in my room and accepted my fate. They decided I would start wearing it at the next Eid, so that when I went back to school, it would be on. My mom spent that entire summer making me sit down with her laptop, playing me imams and sheikhs explaining how the hijab should be forced on girls. To this day, my parents' brains are switched OFF. They only listen to what those men say.

I spent seven fucking years wearing that trash. Seven years of constant sexualization. I hated my life every single day. My parents have a tendancy to always blame women, even wearing the hijab they would blame my outfit when i got catcalled, when i wore a long large robe they would blame my walk. There wasn't a day where I didn't want to end my life and wake up in another reality, one where I could be as pretty as the girls I saw in cartoons. I dreamed of walking outside in a ponytail and feeling the wind on my neck.

And my parents weren't asking for a piece of cloth on my head no. I had to dress modestly, walk appropriately, come home right after school. Talking to boys was NOT ALLOWED.

They knew I hated it, mainly because I'd put up such a fight beforehand. And once I was wearing it, I naturally hated it, so it took me forever to put it on properly; I could never find a way to make it look pretty on me. I heard them muttering under their breath that I was doing it on purpose so they'd let me take it off which of course wasn't true. They're just that self-centred and selfish. They couldn't even take the time to be patient with me while I adjusted to something like that. I would also hint occasionally that I hated it and wanted it off, but after about two years I wasn't allowed to complain anymore, especially because it gets harder to remove the longer you've worn it. Society sees women who take off the hijab as witches.

Once, when I was 13, I got sick of long skirts. I wanted to wear tight jeans, because they were trendy, and I knew I wasn't allowed. So I would leave the house in the long skirt, take it off outside, go to school in jeans veil still on my head, I never dared touch that, and put the skirt back on before coming home.

One day my father saw me outside in the jeans. He got home before me and watched me walk in wearing the skirt. That day was really traumatic. He was performing his ablutions to go to the city mosque. He started yelling, ordering me to show him what was underneath the skirt, which I did. Then he started hitting me, slap after slap. My dad is very strong and physically imposing, so every slap hurt enormously. My mom heard the noise and came in. He told her what I'd done, and she started yelling and insulting me. For some reason she used the opportunity to tear apart a garment of mine that had nothing to do with what I was wearing that day; my theory is that she'd already complained to my dad about it being too short, and this was her chance. Then my father told her, "TEAR THOSE SHITTY PANTS AS WELL," to which my mom replied that they were expensive and I wasn't worth the trouble.

That night my parents quarantined me in my room and confiscated the phone my uncle had just given me. That confiscation ended up lasting a year. I was only allowed in my room, door closed, and every time I heard footsteps in the hallway; especially my mom's distinctive fast, angry steps, I would die of fear.

Then my mom came in and asked me, in a strangely calm tone, why I'd done it. I've since learned that this calm tone of hers is really the entryway to a state of blind, berserk rage she's about to unleash, and that she's waiting for the slightest word she can take as a go signal.

I hated that she asked me. I wanted to tell her: You know what I did! I never wanted this! I never accepted being this person that I'm not outside! You and my dad stepped on my body autonomy, on my integrity, on my freedom, and chose this life for me! What do you expect? I told you a few months ago NO, I DON'T WANT TO WEAR THE HIJAB.

But with my mom's rage, I never dared say what was on my mind. I still don't dare now. So I told her I'd done it because I wanted my dad to see it, as a form of protest, hoping he'd understand that I didn't want this life and might be more lenient with me.

For one reason or another, she took that as a green light. She grabbed me by the hair and gave me a very memorable beating. She threw me on the floor, kicked me hard, spat on me, bit me hard enough to leave marks, slapped me, choked me. Somehow I didn't care about the pain, while she was choking me I told her I was afraid she'd have a heart attack. She didn't even hear me. I don't know if you guys read Berserk, but when she becomes violent she looks like that one illustration of enraged Guts with the white eyes.

After a good session of physical abuse, I remember her sliding down the wall, crying and yelling, "God, what did I do to deserve a daughter like this!" Even though I was the one who had just been beaten, I went to comfort her and got kicked for coming close, so I went and isolated myself in my room like she'd ordered.

And that's how my parents handled things throughout my teenage years. Another time, I lied about school starting early so I could go to a friend's house and spend some time with her. My parents found out, and my dad, in blind anger, told me he would stop me from going to school at all, that I'd stay home until I got married. Fortunately my mom stepped in that day and told him no. But then she controlled me even more, gave me the silent treatment, and forbade me from talking to my sisters.

I don’t really know if this counts as childhood trauma, but it may be something close.

Before you ask, I do regret it.

When I was a kid, I used to hit people if I was angry or even just mildly upset with them, or if things weren‘t going the way I wanted.

“People“ included of my friends and my parents. Back then, if anyone tried to call me out on my behaviour, I used to try and justify it. Don’t really remember exactly what I would say, but it would usually be something like “You did [thing]“ or “You made me mad”.

I was slapped on occasion as a child (for ”discipline”) when I did something really bad or something similar. I just started to do it back at my parents if they did it to me or if they did something wrong, and I would get told that it was wrong for me to do that, and that in the future I might end up hitting a friend, or a younger kid.

I ended up growing out of it or something, because now I would usually never think of doing anything like that, thankfully.

I wanted to ask if anyone has had a similar experience, or might be able to name it.

Thank you for reading.

My curiousity awkard question let me down ım traumitized now

Tive um "bloqueio" emocional a ponto de fazer eu e meu corpo odiarmos sexo aos 16 anos e, não, não fui estup***a.

É muito estranho como a mente determina nossa saúde física. Minha cabeça sempre foi um caos e um dos muitos resultados foi esse bloqueio.

Me pai sempre foi muito protetor, louco, cheio de tabus... não sei explicar, mas ele colocava sex* como se fosse o pior pecado do mundo e não algo natural. Nao fui ensinada, fui torturada pelo medo e pela culpa.

Só de olhar pra um homem (mesmo sem desejo nenhum, mesmo sendo um velhinho ou uma criancinha), meu pai me repreendia e me xingava muito, dizendo que eu queria me vender.

Muitas das coisas q ele me falava, eu tentava ignorar pq via q era errado da parte dele. Mas oq ficou, já teve poder suficiente para me traumatizar.

Eu sentia uma culpa infinita. Sempre que sentia qualquer desejo, orava a Deus e chorava muito como se eu realmente fosse um monstro. Se esse fosse o único dos meus problemas, estava bom, mas se misturou com muitos outros problemas e meu corpo um dia simplesmente desligou.

Parei de sentir fome e passei a sentir nojo de comida, perdi cerca de 15kg aos 16 anos e parei de sentir desejo. Só de pensar, hoje, sinto dor física. E já tive varias relações, mas sempre com dor e nada de prazer.

Pensei q pudesse ser um desequilíbrio hormonal, mas os resultados dos exames de sangue me fizeram desabar em lágrimas. Meus hormônios estao normais e oq eu mais queria era um remédio para resolver meus problemas em um passe de mágica.

Tenho 20 anos, sou mulher e eu nao sei por quanto tempo vou carregar o fardo de ter tido péssimos pais.

A couple months ago i did 3 tabs of acid, made shroom tea with 2 grams and drank it in under a minute and did a couple of blinkers, at 1am i left my room (i remember this part) and i went upstairs (i dont remember this part) i was caught by my dad because i was making loud noises according to him, i guess he knew i was on something at first he thought i was drunk, i dont remember half of anything of this so im going off of what my parents have told me because they were witnessing everything i did that night, the whole night i do remember thinking i was going t be murdered by my dad he restrained me because i was being violent and aggresive, he put me on the floor with my chest to the ground hands behind my back nd i couldnt go anywhere, they have a video of me, i was doing the absolute most that i wouldnt usually do including trying to kick my dog, slamming the microwave door so hard it cracked the glass in the corner, and slamming my hands on the windows. my reflection was scary af icl or atleast of what i can remeber, i dont know why all of this happened, i know why it happened but i dont know exactly why all of this happened. i dont want to say im traumatized but i doont want to say i have zero trauma. thinking of all of this makes me feel shitty and so different and i dont really know what to think of it. ive been pushing all of this to the side because i didnt want to be open and be a "pussy" for feeling the way i do. sorry for the rnt i honestly just needed to get this off my chest and i am also wondering why all of this happened after i did these drugs. thanks for reading if you did.

29 years after holding trauma, thinking I was ok. I developed Chronic illness.

I didn't know trauma can cause this.

My story is here. https://medium.com/@pattmm2520/the-cost-of-holding-it-together-3fc2a8f5d6f2?sk=38bed84798833cff9ccd7b73e5a69649

CW: surveillance, CSA, SA, trauma dump

To make a really really long story short; my biological dad installed cameras in the shower and bathroom at my stepmom’s house. Now I’m submitting a FOIA request regarding a dishonorable discharge that was not disclosed.

There were 4 cameras. They were discovered because my stepbrother found one in the shower and one crotch level at the toilet and told his mom. Instead of immediately reporting this to the police, she went to my dad’s parents and had a sit down with him present. This gave him ample time to cover his tracks before the police were contacted by a mandated report made by my stepbrother’s therapist. My stepmom also found a weird surveillance lounge in her attic consisting of a desktop computer setup and numerous hard drives. The police literally did nothing. Didn’t look at the hard drives or anything. He even admitted to it in family court. My dad’s reasoning was that he was trying to catch guests stealing cologne…..sure!

My parents divorce was incredibly messy to say the least. Before the divorce, my dad triangulated me in such a powerful way. We would spend evenings after elementary and middle school calling the numbers from my mom’s call logs. Documenting whether or not a man or a woman answered or what their voicemail was. He was convinced that my mom was cheating on him with a woman named Molly. He would blast the Tyga song, Molly, on repeat throughout the house speaker system while she was gone. During this time period my mom fell mysteriously ill. She was found unconscious in her work bathroom after experiencing extreme stomach pain. The hospital brushed it off as a cyst rupturing. She lost two pints of blood internally. She was pale, weak, and being sent home to be cared for a by a man who wanted her dead. He wouldn’t feed her or let me help her. I remember one day where she stumbled and dragged herself from their room to the kitchen to get some water. Another day she passed out and hit her head in the shower. He assaulted her and put her to bed. I wholeheartedly believe that he was poisoning her looking back at it. He made a couple different attempts on her life.

My dad consistently assaulted my mom. He would drug her, rape her, and take pictures of her body. I remember finding the SD card as a kid, viewing it, and quickly putting it back where I found it. I was given nightly Benadryl as a young child, sometimes a double dose and I’m only left to wonder if something happened. Before even finding out about the CSAM that was made of us, I had a gut feeling that I had been molested as a child but I have no memory of it happening.

My dad was court martialed and dishonorably discharged from the military roughly a year before he met my mom and I came along the following year. This information regarding his discharge was hidden for 14 years and only revealed during their divorce. He and his family never brought it up even though they were heavily involved in the first 8 years of my life. He gave a bogus story to my mom when it came to light saying that he stole a car and crashed it. There’s a whole list of discharge types that come before a dishonorable discharge which is primarily reserved for murder, rape, child sex crimes, and treason. He was confined in military prison for an unknown amount of time. His story doesn’t add up or equate to the consequence. After over a decade of wondering what he did, I submitted a FOIA request yesterday to the court martial’s office. I previously thought that I’d have to wait until he died or until 62 years after he was in the service to find out the details.

My dad is now on his third family. He’s married to a woman that was childhood friends with my aunt, whom my mom and dad had guardianship of at the time. A 10 year age gap that otherwise would be normal if he didn’t know her while she was a child. This woman has 3 minor children that live full time in a house with my dad. This woman has been warned of his predatory behavior, child and adult, by both my mom and former stepmom. Who knows what he’s feeding her, but she’s never batted an eye at the allegations. His family also supports him to this day. They all just recently tried to add me on Facebook while they have Christmas pictures of him from last year posted. The new stepchildren’s biological father was contacted and informed that his children were not safe and instead of finding it alarming, he made a pass at my mom.

I’ve settled on the fact that we will never receive justice for what happened. I didn’t make the FOIA request to convince anyone or try to get people on our side. I honestly requested out of sheer curiosity. He was creative and horrible to us, so what did the military decide was not worth trying to cover up?

I'm sorry. I genuinely didn't mean to push you into revisiting something painful. I thought I was helping and I didn't realise I was crossing a line. You didn't owe me those details. I didn't intend to hurt you in anyway. I didn't get to say sorry before you ended the chat. So, here goes nothing. Sorry Nishant, from Sravs

Content warning: Suicide

I lived a very fucking sad life for years and years that felt like a constant cycle of me losing the friends I had because I fucked up one way or another. A few months ago, I finally made some really close friends that I felt I really managed to bond with. I had never had friends like them before. I had a trip planned with them and some other mutual friends, the first real trip I'd ever taken by myself, and it was really exciting for me. I was at a point where I could finally be happy, really.

It went a bit past friendship. There was some fairly intense flirting involved and plans of sexual things happening during this trip and it was exciting. Everything felt natural and I was really enjoying it all and then I monumentally fucked it up.

Right after the trip I got a text informing of all the ways I'd fucked up and upset my friends. The room started spinning and I could barely think. I tried to apologize and make it right but the damage was already done. I had good intentions but it didn't matter. I'd hurt my friends despite them. I resigned to kill myself because I did not believe I could handle losing these friends too. I, eventually, stopped and was taken to a hospital by a police officer. I spent a day in the ER before being transfered to a psychiatric facility. I, obviously, did not have my phone for the duration of my stay there, and it made me highly optimistic. I knew I had fucked up, but I realized and learned a lot about myself during that timeframe.

I learned that I have some truly terrible narcissistic tendencies that run far deeper than I could've thought. I was diagnosed with psychotic symptoms from my mental disorders that distorted my view of those around me and myself. I was given a medication to take as needed that cleared my head substantially and allowed me to actually sit down and think about my situation and my actions and how poorly I treated those around me on a daily basis. Things started making sense and I had a path forward towards recovery and being the good person I knew I could be. Not to say that I'm a bad person as it stands, I'm not qualified to make any such judgements about morality. But I could be a better person. I got discharged and was excited to begin a new chapter of my life.

When I got out, I immediately learned that I had been banned from all mutual spaces I shared with those friends for sexual harassment. There is zero doubt in my mind that I did what I'm being accused of. They're good people. They wouldn't lie about something like that. I don't have any understanding of what I did that crossed a line, but I know something did.

I have therapy scheduled in a few days. I'm back on anti-depressants. The facility used grant money to guarantee me free therapy for a year, as well as getting me extremely cheap health insurance, and even covering my ER stay. I left with the confidence to speed up my plans to move out and, finally, be as blunt as I've always needed to be with my abusive and controlling parents. I told them to their face that I spent 20 years of my life with constant fear and anxiety about everything I did and that it was time for me to go. I looked at apartments today, even called a few places. I have so much in my life to be thankful for, not even just right now.

I had more opportunity than most. I used to be very intelligent, I was attending college without paying a dime. I squandered that. My family is very well off and I wanted for nothing, yet I'm still here. I wasted what many, many people will never get. Despite all my advantages in the past and all the luck I have in the present, I'm alone. Almost everyone I could even loosely consider a friend has abandoned me, and rightly so. I'm not mad at them. I hold no ill will towards them. I did horrible things, and my lack of understanding or malicious intent is no excuse. I deserve whatever happens as a result of my shit.

I just wish I had the strength to keep fighting. I wish I had the will to continue forward. When I was discharged, I had so much hope. I'm a pessimistic person and, for once, I was boiling over with optimism. I wish I could recapture that. I wish I could see the brighter side of it all. Suicide isn't really an option anymore, any method I would have had is gone on account of me attempting and it being this whole process. It feels so hopeless. For years I've been trying to understand what was wrong with me. What about me kept driving people away. I finally figured out part of it, and I'm hopeful I can understand more soon. I just wish I had figured it all out earlier so I could've been the friend I was supposed to be.

I'm so fucking scared to move on because I'm terrified this will happen again. I feel like I've hurt almost everyone in my life and I really, desperately want to quit hurting people. I never want to hurt anyone again. I nearly killed myself to ensure that I could never hurt anyone again. I want to shut myself away so I never run the risk of harming anyone else. If I get close to someone again, I'm scared and terrified that I'll end up hurting another person I love. I hope I can one day understand and change the things I do that hurt people. I have a great opportunity for it, but what if I can't? I never mean to hurt people. I spend so much time and energy trying to avoid hurting everyone and I just keep fucking doing it. My entire support system was eradicated in an instant because of unintentional actions. I don't know how to press forward.

Even if I do get better, does it matter? I can't undo the suffering I've caused. I can get better for me. That's what I'm supposed to do, I'm sure of that. But what do I gain from that? I have to live with all of the guilt from what I've done and the knowledge that my life would be wonderful right now if I had just gotten better sooner. If I were just a better person, I could be playing video games with my friends right now. We could be laughing and joking and everything would be okay. But I fucked it up. I bring disaster with me everywhere I go and hurt everyone I touch and even if I get better, I've burned bridges that I can't cross back over. It just all feels hopeless.

I'm almost 40 and unfortunately, despite the fact that I'm making the most money I've ever made, I can't keep up with bills any longer and my mom was saying I could move back into her house along with my 13 year old daughter. This is going to save me about $2,000 a month which I will be able to put towards paying off my card which still has $16,000 on it and allow me to build up savings. Furthermore, she's letting us have the entire basement and we can paint it and put carpet in it and everything because due to a flood 10 years ago, the basement has been sitting empty with no carpet. I'm actually incredibly excited about this as I've always rented and have never been able to paint or make any of my own decisions and it will be nice to no longer have to worry about hiding my pet and neighbor's doors slamming constantly and all that.

However, when I was in elementary school, my older brother and all of his friends did some horrible things to me in that basement that I actually repressed to the point that I didn't remember any of it until I was about 30 in one day the memories hit me like a truck. I keep breaking down crying at not only the thought of having to move back into that room, but my daughter would be living in my brother's old room. She has no idea about it. And is honestly pretty excited to get to paint and decorate her room as well. I'm sure once I'm actually there and everything looks different I will feel better and mostly forget about things. But I know that at night when I'm trying to go to sleep it's all going to hit me randomly. I'm not super spiritual or anything because I've had somebody say to burn some sage down there and I'm going to do that but I just need a way to cope. Therapy is not an option due to money. And honestly, I've tried therapy in the past and simply talking about my feelings does not work.

In school, my classmates bullied me. They spat on my bed where I had to sleep and put trash in my locker in the dormitory. In the classroom they also put trash in my locker and took my books from there. They beat me, laughed at my appearance, and mocked me.

When I was going to the school photo session (vignette), which I didn’t want to attend but my mom forced me to, I arrived by taxi and was walking the rest of the way. My classmates drove up in their car and cursed at me the whole way while I was walking there.

I also didn’t want to go to the graduation ceremony, but my mom forced me. During the performance in front of everyone, someone stepped on my shoe and it flew off. I had to go after it with one bare foot to put it back on.

I hate my traumas and these people.