Still Here, Still Hurting

Part 1

It has taken me 26 years to realise that I am not living in the present. I've endured unimaginable trauma, the kind I wouldn't wish on anyone. Thank you for choosing to read this and for being a part of my healing journey. Loneliness has been my constant companion, and the need to burst open and share my pain feels overwhelming and impossible. I hope this doesn't become too much for you.

I can barely remember my childhood—at least none of the positive moments, if there were any at all. It feels like I've been blocking everything out for as long as I can remember, and somehow, I’m still stuck in that mode, even 26 years later. The only real awareness I have from a young age is that I lived with my mum, my older sister, Olive, and my "dad" (and I use that term loosely). I never knew how long they had been together or where their story began, but I later found out it was just a few weeks after I was born. That will all make sense soon enough.

So, before things get confusing, I want to make it clear—he isn't my dad. I never actually had one. The "sperm donor" left my mum when I was just a few weeks old. Right after that, she met a man I'll call Adolf (I googled 'the worst male name ever,' and it fits perfectly). Growing up, Olive and I were made to call Adolf "Dad." I had no idea at the time, of course. To me, it felt normal—just what I thought life was supposed to be.

As a quick reference, I’ll be using the following names throughout: I’m Emma, my sister is Olive, our "dad" will be Adolf, and of course, my mum

As I mentioned before, my childhood memories are mostly foggy, as if I’ve blocked them out. I can recall bits and pieces from when I was around four years old and up, but it’s all disjointed. I don't even remember when things started to go wrong—it just felt like it happened naturally, like it was the way things were supposed to be. Around that time, Adolf and my mum got married, though it wasn’t a love story—it was more out of pressure. Adolf bought the wedding ring from a pawn shop for £10, which wasn’t the problem. The problem was that this seemed to be all she was worth to him. She couldn’t afford a wedding dress either and had to borrow one from her cousin. I have no memory of the actual wedding, only a few old photos. In one of them, Olive and I are wearing these awful dark purple bridesmaid dresses, and to this day, I have no idea where they even came from.

One night, I was lying in the top bunk of my bed, with Olive below. I remember hearing Adolf come home from the pub—the door slamming behind him. My mum, asked him, "Why are there lipstick marks on your cheeks?" Almost immediately, he exploded, screaming and swearing at her on how she's accusing him of cheating. In his rage, he kicked the top glass of our brand new oven, not even a week old that my mum had just spent £800 on, back in the 2000s, that was a lot of money. I remember shaking in my bed, terrified and I can't stay still when I panic so I snuck out of my room, stood at the top of the staircase, and saw him in the hallway, his face smeared with bright red lipstick on both cheeks. It was terrifying and I ran back to bed.

This was just another normal night for us. There was another time when Adolf came home from the pub, grabbed a bottle of sweetener, and smashed it all over the floor. I remember seeing my mum, kneeling down to clean it up while he was drunk again, something that felt like a regular occurrence. I went back to the living room, where I sat on a two-seater sofa with Olive. As we watched, my mum walked through the room, and Adolf pushed her onto the one-seater couch right in front of us. We were crying, but it felt more like we were numb to the chaos unfolding. I wanted to help her, but as a young child, I had no idea what I was witnessing, only that I was terrified. My memory of these events is so fragmented; I can only recall these specific moments without any recollection of what happened before or after. That’s all I have from that incident.

I used to spend a lot of time playing outside in the street with Olive and the neighbours, many of whom were her age. We all went to the same school and grew up together, and it was fun to have that freedom to play with friends. One of the neighbours, a girl I’ll call Molly, was known as the naughty child who always seemed to be getting into trouble. When Olive wasn’t around, Molly would drag my hair, call me fat, and find ways to hurt me physically. She was scared of Olive and never laid a hand on me when she was present.

I never told anyone, not even Olive, about what Molly was doing to me. I was too afraid of what might happen to Molly and worried it would only make things worse for me. Molly would even dare her little sister, who was about three years younger than me, to pull my hair and kick me. But one day, things escalated. Molly hit me with a large stick, breaking my nose. I was bleeding heavily and managed to text Olive for help. Within minutes, she ran out of the house and sprinted up the street to where we were playing. She grabbed Molly by her hair, Molly was about five stone, and swung her around, beating her up until Molly was crying and apologizing. After that, Molly never said or did another thing to me again.

I have flashbacks of Molly always shouting a specific name at me—Alan. I was so confused by it that I once asked my mum, “Who is Alan? Why does Molly keep calling me Alan?” But I was always shut off with a simple, “Just ignore her.” So, that’s what I did. I never thought much of it after that; it was just another part of the chaos, another piece of confusion in a childhood filled with it.

I had a strict curfew when I was out with friends—it was 7 PM. As that time approached, my heart would start to race, and panic would set in. If I was even a little bit far from home, I would sprint, out of breath and terrified of what would happen if I was late. I remember one time, I was only one minute late. When I walked through the door, I was met with his furious screams. I cried and apologized, pleading, “It’s only one minute!” But he didn’t care. He grabbed the Sky remote, pointed it in my face, and said, “Answer back to me again, and I’ll use this remote to kill you.” After that, I never dared to answer back again.

When I was around 13 and in high school, it was a truly horrible time for me as a teenager. I faced extreme bullying every single day, both from older and younger boys, primarily about my weight—I was overweight. Yet, going to school felt like my escape, my chance to experience freedom. It was a fun time spent with friends, away from the silence and chaos of home, where I never knew what would happen next. While I hated the schoolwork and some of the teachers, being with my friends made it worthwhile. Those five days a week felt like a breath of fresh air amidst the struggles I faced.

My mum never once spoke up to Adolf; she never said no to him, only yes. She was like his slave. She would fetch him beer, cook his meals, clean the house, and run up and down the stairs to get whatever he demanded, always doing it quickly. He never bothered to say please or thank you; instead, he would snatch things from her and shout at her, with football blaring on the TV every single day. She never got to watch anything she enjoyed on the television she paid for, nor could she use the Sky package she paid for. Instead, she sat there on the two-seater couch next to him in silence, watching football and waiting for him to ask her to get his beer. That’s all she seemed to be useful for—being his slave and his punchbag.

My mum had zero friends. Adolf wouldn’t allow her to have social media, and he constantly went through her phone, monitoring her every move. There wasn’t a single person I knew that she could talk to, apart from Adolf, me, and Olive. It was as if her world had shrunk to just the three of us, and I could see how isolating that was for her.

At some point in high school, around the age of 13 or 14, I started speaking with the school counselor. I opened up about some of the things happening at home, how sad I felt, and the bullying I was facing at school. I don’t remember how many sessions I had or how I ended up with the counselor, but one day stands out as a haunting memory. When I came home from school that day, Adolf had received a call from the school. After hanging up, he screamed, “Emma, get down here now!”

As I made my way downstairs, he dragged me into the kitchen and shouted, “Roll up your sleeves now.” I hesitated and said, “I don’t want to,” but he grabbed my arm, pulling up my school jumper sleeve to expose the self-harm cuts covering my arms. In a terrifying moment, he reached for the biggest knife in the cutlery drawer and said, “Do you want me to do it for you?” My mum stood on the staircase behind me, crying, and he shouted, “Look what you’ve done to your mum!” Overwhelmed, I ran upstairs to my room, and that’s all I remember from that day.

My mum was a nurse who often worked away, sometimes in up the road and sometimes further out. She would do three to four night shifts a week, which meant Olive and I were left alone in the house with Adolf during those nights. Yes, we were constantly scared and spent most of our time hiding in our rooms. Even going to the bathroom upstairs was terrifying. To cross the hallway from my room felt like an ordeal in itself, especially with the creaky laminate floor. I had learned how to navigate the silent spots and perfected the art of closing the door without making a sound to be able to feel safe.

Adolf wasn’t just physically abusive; he abused us sexually, too. We lived in constant fear of what might happen next. He would gaze up and down our bodies, making me and Olive feel like we had to completely cover ourselves in front of him, even though we still felt unsafe and exposed. When my friend came over to stay, she often wore a vest top, and I begged her not to. She was so confused and weirded out by my insistence. But then she noticed the way he looked at her, and when she mentioned it to me, I was horrified. I thought this was the end of our friendship and that she would tell everyone my dad was a pedophile. Thankfully, she didn’t, and at least for that moment, I was relieved.

Adolf was very well-known in my hometown. People would often say things like, “Ooh, I know your dad; he’s an amazing guy!” or “Say hi to your dad for me.” It made me feel incredibly embarrassed because they all knew who he was and thought they understood him as my “dad.” But no one knew the truth about him and how he really was behind closed doors. They didn’t see the monster that lurked beneath the surface, and that dissonance left me feeling isolated and alone, trapped in a facade that felt impossible to break.

Sometimes, I would stay at my friend's house just to escape the nightmare of my own home. Looking back, I realise I often did this when my mum was working night shifts, leaving Olive alone with him. The guilt and selfishness I feel now is overwhelming. I was horrified that I chose to prioritise my own safety and comfort without fully grasping the danger my sister faced. At the time, I had no idea how much she was suffering, and the weight of that realisation makes me feel disgustingly guilty.

One day, I mustered the courage to ask my mum, “Who is Alan, and why did Molly keep calling me Alan when I was a child?” To my surprise, she answered me directly: “Adolf isn’t your dad.” In that moment, tears of happiness rolled down my face. I felt a rush of relief and freedom. She continued, “I’m sorry for not telling you sooner,” and I quickly replied, “No, please don’t apologize! Thank you so much for telling me. I’m so glad he’s not my dad.” It felt like a weight had been lifted, and then she added, “Alan is your real dad.”

Olive shared with me how she had always known that Adolf wasn't our real dad. Being two years older, she could remember Alan and the life before him. As she spoke, it hit me that all those baby pictures I had seen of myself with strangers—people I was told were just “distant cousins”—were actually my half-brothers and my real dad. It was a revelation that shook me to my core. All this time, I had been living in a world of lies, but now, pieces of my true identity were finally falling into place. The thought of knowing my real family and the life that could have been filled me with both sadness and hope.

I can’t fully describe the overwhelming feeling of knowing that this horrible, abusive monster is NOT my dad. For 15 years, I had been forced to call him “Dad,” living under the weight of that title while feeling nothing but dread and fear in his presence. The relief and joy that washed over me in that moment were indescribable. It was as if a heavy fog had finally lifted, revealing a brighter, clearer path ahead. I had been trapped in a lie, and now I could finally embrace the truth. The freedom that came with that realisation was exhilarating, a newfound sense of identity that I had long yearned for.

As high school was coming to an end, something shifted in our home. One night, Adolf was screaming at my mum, taunting her, “I’m the bad guy, I’m the monster; you never tell them off!” That’s when something finally clicked in her. In a moment of bravery, she stood up for herself and declared, “I can’t do this anymore; get your stuff, you’re leaving.” To our astonishment, she actually kicked him out. Olive and I were in her bedroom, and we burst into tears of joy, hugging each other tightly. “Yes, finally!” we silently screamed in our hearts. It was a moment of pure happiness—the happiest I had ever felt.

When he went upstairs, he started to cry as he packed a bag, shouting, “Are you happy now?” Olive replied firmly, “Yes, I am actually.” As he passed me, he said, “Love you, Ems,” and in that moment, I felt an overwhelming surge of bravery. I shot back, “Fuck off out of here now!” It was an insane feeling of power. Olive then stormed into their bedroom and grabbed his bin bag filled with Asian pornography tapes and magazines, hurling it through the window while shouting, “Here you go, your pornography tapes, pedo!” The shock of what she did sent me into fits of laughter; I couldn't believe she had the guts to do that. My jaw hurt from gasping and laughing so hard—it was a moment of pure exhilaration.

Within days of finally being free from him, I felt an overwhelming wave of happiness and joy. For the first time, my sister, my mum, and I were living together alone, without the shadow of Adolf looming over us. I could go to the fridge and grab a drink without asking for permission, play music, and laugh freely. I could use the bathroom without fear, take a bath or shower without having to lock the door. It was an insane transformation. I still remember that feeling of pure happiness, security, and safety—it was as if a weight had been lifted, and for the first time in my life, I could truly breathe.

I remember that week going to school feeling positive and excited to study for the first time in ages. It all changed when the headteacher pulled me out of a lesson to talk. He said, “Emma, your work is outstanding, and you shouldn’t be in the lower sets, but your behaviour has let you down.” That hit me hard. I realised I had been the naughty one, goofing off with my friends, not listening, playing on phones, swearing, and shouting during lessons. We would sneak off to smoke in the school field, living for the moment without a care in the world. Suddenly, it all hit me at once: what have I done? I was in Year 10, with only a year or two left, and I needed to make the most of it. I had to put my head down and start thinking about my future and what I really wanted. So, I did— I made a conscious effort to behave and even apologised to my teachers afterwards.

I realised that school was my freedom—a space where I could have fun and be a little naughty, a chance to be an actual child after everything I had lost. But deep down, I knew that no one really understood what was going on behind the scenes. No one ever questioned my behaviour or the chaos in my life. I could laugh and joke with my friends, but beneath that surface, I was still carrying the weight of my experiences, trapped in a silence that felt suffocating.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long for my mum to cut contact with Adolf. Within days, she arranged to meet up with him "to talk" and ended up going on a day out together, enjoying meals and shopping as if nothing had ever happened. It was bewildering to watch. Over time, she started visiting his house regularly, slipping into a routine of going there before and after work. Before we knew it, she was staying there once a week, then twice, until it felt like she had moved in full-time. Meanwhile, Olive and I, just 15 and 17 years old, were left alone in our three-bedroom house, navigating life without her. The initial relief of being free from Adolf quickly turned into a different kind of loneliness, watching my mum step back into a life we thought we had escaped.

This strange new dynamic soon became our normality. I started having friends over all the time, and Olive did the same. Our house became a hub of activity; there were always people around, and we threw parties almost every weekend. I quickly earned a reputation as the “cool friend” who could host house parties, and it felt liberating to have that kind of control over my environment. We drank until we were really drunk, letting loose and trying to forget the chaos of our past. In those moments, laughter filled the air, and for a brief time, we felt like we were finally living, even if it was just a façade hiding the deeper issues we still faced.

It absolutely broke me all over again. Despite our initial relief, I realized he was always going to be a part of our lives, still controlling our reality. I barely saw my mum anymore. She would only stay at home when she came off her night shifts, and as soon as she woke up, she would have her cup of tea and leave for his house. She’d come back just a few hours before her next shift, sleep for a bit, and then head out again. This routine felt heartbreaking, a constant reminder of how little I mattered in her eyes. I felt not good enough, empty, unloved, and uncared for. I was still just a child, grappling with a sense of loss and longing for the mother I once knew.

The strangest thing about my mum was that she was always the nicest and kindest person on the planet. All my friends would constantly tell me how much they wished she could be their mum. She would give me money—money I never even asked for—drive me everywhere, pick me up from places, and buy me chocolate every time she went somewhere. She paid for my phone contract, never making me feel guilty about it, and spoiled us for Christmas and birthdays. Yet, even with all this love, she would leave us behind. I still remember waking up on Christmas morning, excited to open our presents, only for her to get a call from him. She would rush off to his house to see his grandkids, dropping us off before we even got the chance to unwrap anything. It felt like a cruel twist, having a mother who was so giving yet so willing to abandon us for him.

Yet, despite everything, I still thought my mum was the best mum in the world. Olive and I were really close to her; our relationship felt perfect. We were affectionate, always leaving each other with “I love yous,” cuddles, and kisses. We never once argued with her or said a bad word to or about her. It was as if we were living in a bubble of love, shielding ourselves from the reality of her choices. We held on to those moments of warmth and connection, convinced that the bond we shared could withstand anything—even the chaos that lurked just outside our home.

Until one day, everything shifted when my mum received a Facebook message from a woman claiming that Adolf had been kissing her and stalking her, offering her rides home from work every day. To us, it wasn't shocking news; we had grown accustomed to the chaos surrounding him. But what left me in disbelief was my mum's first reaction: instead of addressing the situation, she commented on this woman's appearance, calling her a “fat pig.” I was taken aback—it wasn’t like her at all. My mum had fought her own battles with anorexia before getting pregnant with me and Olive, spending years in the hospital because of her weight. She understood how much words could hurt, especially since both my sister and I struggled with eating disorders. Hearing her say something so cruel was disappointing, shattering the image I had of her as a compassionate, loving mother.

Once again, my mum blocked Adolf and seemed to finalise their "thing," ignoring his calls for days. For a moment, Olive and I dared to hope that this time it was really over. But soon enough, the emails started rolling in. He sent desperate messages, claiming he would kill himself, that he was going to overdose on pills, and even mentioned he had cancer. With each message, my mum wrapped herself tighter around his finger, overwhelmed by guilt and concern. Just like that, she went back to him as if nothing had ever happened, and our hopes for a peaceful home were crushed once more.

When COVID hit the following year, I noticed a dramatic shift in my mum. She suddenly became obsessed with her appearance, layering on makeup and adopting a beauty regimen she had never cared about before. She was naturally beautiful, with long, straight black hair that didn't need enhancement, yet she began getting Botox and lip fillers. She lost so much weight that I became genuinely concerned for her health as she hovered dangerously close to being underweight again. Olive and I watched in worry, feeling the pressure to keep up with her new standards. Unbeknownst to us, we had been following her unhealthy ways of losing weight for some time, and the toxic atmosphere in our household persisted, even after she had kicked Adolf out. It was a cycle of self-destruction that was hard to break free from, and I couldn't help but feel trapped in it all.

When my sister discovered that our mum had bought a camcorder, she confronted her about it immediately. Olive then filled me in, and I realized my mum had no clue that I was aware of what was going on. It turned out the camcorder was connected to a USB stick that plugged into an extension cable, hidden behind a pile of dusty cables in Adolf’s living room. I knew this because I was still forced to visit his place occasionally, depending on when my mum picked me up from college, and even after he was gone, I felt under his spell.

The USB stick was something else entirely; it had a phone number you could call without making any sound or displaying any light. It was completely invisible and once dialed, it allowed you to listen in on everything happening in that room, crystal clear. I couldn’t believe my mum had gotten hooked on this invasion of privacy, and I found myself both fascinated and horrified. She had become obsessed with spying on him, desperately trying to uncover his secrets, while I remained trapped in this chaotic web of manipulation and control.

One day, out of sheer curiosity, I hacked into my mum's iPad and stumbled upon a treasure trove of text messages that shattered my perception of her. I found out she was communicating with several different men, exchanging naked pictures and engaging in conversations that felt entirely foreign to the woman I thought I knew—my angel mum. I was in disbelief.

Driven by a mix of anger and desperation, I decided to call that hidden number. When I heard their voices, everything changed. I could hear Adolf speaking clearly, and what he said made my stomach drop. He was telling my mum that me and Olive were evil monsters, that we were the ones abusing her. It felt like a betrayal, and I was left reeling in shock. How could she believe him? She agreed. How could she allow this twisted narrative to take root? I became addicted to calling this number every single time she was over. She continued to speak horrible about me and my sister. The very foundation of my world was crumbling, and I couldn't help but feel trapped in a nightmare that just wouldn't end.

It hit me like a ton of bricks: my mum was truly brainwashed. But in that moment, I also realized that I had been brainwashed too. I had spent so long defending her, convinced that it wasn't her fault, that she was just scared and manipulated. Olive had tried to warn me long before, but I brushed her off, unable to see the truth. Now, staring into this distorted reality, I couldn't believe how blind and trapped I had been.

How could I have overlooked the signs? The way my mum dismissed our feelings, the way she always prioritised Adolf's needs over ours, the toxic cycle that kept us all imprisoned in fear. It felt overwhelming to recognise that I had allowed myself to be part of this chaos. I thought I was protecting her, but I was only enabling a cycle of abuse. How could I have been so stupid? The realization was suffocating, but it also ignited a fierce determination within me to break free from this web of manipulation and reclaim my life.

It gets worse..