I’m so fucked in the head right now. 
I live with my parents and two of my siblings. My mom is my antagonist. It would take years to tell you all of the reasons why, but here’s a sort of explanation: 

She was a singer in Hong Kong when she met my Dad (the only job she has ever had) - but was delusional in her belief that she was a bigger ‘star’ than she really was, and as such felt entitled to more than she got. 

They had my sister when they were in Bahrain, and moved to Japan where my dad worked on an American Air base. Cue three more kids (me included) and after a year moved to England for my dad to find work there. Cue another kid a few years later. 

So now the whole family is here. She hated her children from the offset. Making it no secret that she despised us for ‘tearing her away from her career, family, friends, and fortune’. 

My older sister, me, and my younger sister bore all of the abuse. She seemed to calm somewhat once she had a son. 

She would hit us with anything she had to hand, scream and hurl abuse, cursing us for ruining her life, for making any noise at all, for being useless, for not being able to mind-read her intentions or wants. 

She blamed us, everything wrong was our fault. She ignored us, never looking up from what she was doing when we entered a room, unless it was to question, order, or intimidate us. 

Simultaneously we were invisible, and yet vulnerable and weak and forever trapped in her line of sight. 

I cannot remember a single instance of true empathy, sympathy, love, care, or affection from her. Everything was an act. A ploy. A device to get what she wanted. Any motherly tendencies she had were a false display for others. 

She smokes inside. Heavily. She says since she was 13. I was bullied continuously throughout school for always smelling like rancid, stale smoke. No matter how many times I bathed or washed my clothes it was always present because she was always smoking. 

When I was 8 we went to Hong Kong without my Dad, who stayed behind to work. We visited our Grandpa who was dying of cancer. While we were out there I was molested repeatedly by my uncle, and while she hadn’t ever been a mother to me, the fact that it happened and she wasn’t there, that she didn’t keep me safe, and then afterwards refused to talk about it ever again, left me feeling like the last flicker of hope in her as a mother had been extinguished. 

I had done everything I could to keep her happy. I did everything she asked, never talked back like my younger sister did, I kept quiet because I knew she hated noise. I was such a silent child. I would go above and beyond to do chores well out of my age-range. I’d fetch her Coca Cola and constantly ask if she needed or wanted anything. I became reduced to nothing but simply a pair of hands that did her bidding. 

I had no existence or identity other than to try and make her happy. I thought if I could do enough good to counteract the heinous sin of being born, then maybe, maybe then she would be happy. And maybe then she would love me. 

I was terrified of her. Terrified that if I stopped trying then it would be over and she would never love me. I was terrified of being punished. Terrified of stepping out of line or saying the wrong thing. I lived in constant fear at home. I took solace inside closets and cupboards. To block out the noises of her shouting or hitting my siblings. 

At some point in secondary school I grew tired of it. I secretly declared to myself that she wasn’t my mother, she never had been and never would be. She was more like an irritating fixture in the house. An ugly, hulking piece of furniture that you can’t shift because it belongs to someone else. No, she was worse. She was a stain. 

I grew up in silence. Bullied, self-harming, suicide attempts at 12. Everyone around me saw me as the level-headed child. The one that was responsible, mature, dedicated, and in control. I kept every last festering bit of my past and present hidden behind a thick veil of humour and under-age drinking; acting out after dark. 

I went to university and discovered I was gay. I finally had independence and met a girl and I was doing what I thought I wanted to do. More importantly, I was free from my mom. 

A year in I crashed. My then-girlfriend convinced me to see a counsellor. I crashed hard and fast. Everything came undone. My entire life, bottled and unmanaged suddenly spewed forth. 

Seven years since going away to university I am now back under my parents roof. My mom seems more docile now. She can’t hit or shout at us anymore because we’re all bigger than her. She still has rages sometimes. But now they’re more passive aggressive than before, directed at the dishes she’s washing or the door she walks through. 

I found I’ve sort of taken up my old role. I’ve taken to DIY. She used to lock herself in the dining room and smoke and play games on her tablet. Day after day after day. For years and years. 

I fixed up the dining room and the hallway and stairwell, I made it more inviting and more like a home. I bought a new vacuum for the house. I gave her a dedicated space in the dining room, and dedicated shelves for her books (she is a hoarder). All of this from my benefits money, just to try and make this house some semblance of a home.

I’ve just realised however, that no matter how many shelves I put up, it won’t make a home. Because she is still here. She is still the stain. 

I just want it to be normal. Or what I imagine normal is. She barely sleeps and spends every waking moment on the same spot on the sofa, smoking and playing games. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t see me. (Unless she wants something). I look at her and all I see is everything I’ve just written. 

I give up, for a second time, to try and fix things. 



