After my dad died, my mum and I couldn't bear to be in our house, and one of his work mates let us live with them for a while. That evening was one of the worst I've ever had. I was just paralyzed by what had happened. I threw up until there was nothing left in my stomach, and my mum had to give me diazepam that the paramedics had given me because my body was going through shock. Someone took care of our dog and kitten, but eventually we found a better place for our recently adopted kitten to go.

After a couple of months of hopping between other houses, we managed to go back home. We slept in the room that used to be dad's office, me on a mattress and mum on my bed, because mum couldn't bear to be in the same bed and room that dad died in, and I couldn't bear to be alone.

We decided to pack up and move back to Sweden, at least to bury dad. It was also always my dad's dream to come to New Zealand, and not ours, so we felt moving back was the right thing to do. My mum was however essentially incapacitated by the loss, and I took the brunt of the work. I cooked, cleaned and took care of my mum, all the while I sold most of our furniture and organised for the move. We returned dad's car, of which the remainder of the lease was waived in respect to our situation. My ten year old self packed the rest of our things up, organised for a container, and found a new place to live in Sweden where my mum would have work available. It was also far away from our extended family, who we were praying wouldn't find us.

One night in the middle of me setting up our move back to Sweden, I remember having my first panic attack on the floor of dad's old office. I didn't even know what was going on, but it was just my body not being able to handle all the feelings I were repressing to be able to take responsiblity for everything.

When we were in Sweden, things were okay, but it didn't feel right. After ten months, we started preparing to go back. We buried dad with a beautiful headstone, facing southeast towards New Zealand, where his dream was. Our dog, the dog dad loved and that we had shipped from Sweden to New Zealand and back, we gave back to her breeder. That night in the hotel, I remember having a breakdown. It felt like I had let go of the last piece of my dad.

The next night at the hotel, the night before we were driving back to the town we were living in, my mum and I were sitting at the bar, and I needed to go to the bathroom. I went up to the receptionist to ask where it was, and she hesitated, giving me a strange look before pointing me in the right direction. When I got back to my mum, she said she was pretty sure it was my step-sister.

My dad had a marriage before my mum, and he had a daughter with a woman that he eventually grew to hate. He always kept in contact with his other daughter though, and wanted her to love him as a proper father. Unfortunately she was brainwashed by her mother and my mother's mum, opting to side with my grandmother. The next morning when we were checking out of the hotel as quickly as we could, my mum told me to guard the bags and by no means leave them. That was when an old woman walked up to me, and although I barely recognised her I knew it was my grandmother. She walked up to me and was talking in my ear but I was just paralyzed. This was the woman I had been brought up to think of as the devil, as the reason my life was what it was.

Mum shouted at her and got security to remove her, explaining that we had a restraining order and hidden identities because of her. My mum was initially supportive of me, saying that she understood why I froze up. However once we got home and she had a few beers, her attitude changed. She shouted at me for hours, but luckily didn't hit me much. Once it was finally late enough to go to bed, I hurried into bed hoping that would stop the mental and emotional abuse. She however told me to get up and brush my teeth, and I reluctantly did.

When I walked into the bathroom, my mother was on the toilet, with her pants down. When I looked at her, shocked, and obviously disturbed at having seen my mum's , she ed her hips at me and yelled something along the lines of, 'what, haven't you seen a before? this is what you are anyway!'. Frightened and unsure what to do, I just turned around to get my toothbrush so that I could get out of there as soon as possible. My mother was however not pleased with this non-response and hit me on the back of the head for what she deemed as me being stupid and disrespecting her. My head then hit the cabinet corner very hard, and my forehead proceeded to gush blood. I was only eleven, and terrified. The blood completely drenched me and my pyjamas, all the while my mum was standing in the background laughing at me and how pathetic I was.

There was always a line my parents would say when they hit me too, they would say, 'you seriously think this is child abuse? you don't even know how lucky you are. you're disgusting and you'd be nothing without us,' and that was what she was saying while laughing while my head was spurting blood.

The blood eventually stopped, and I did the best thing I could think of. I changed pyjamas, putting the blood-soaked ones in the corner, then put a plaster over the cut on my head, and went to bed, hoping that would be it. It had already been one of the worst experiences of abuse yet, so that had to be enough for her, right? Wrong. Minutes later she came into my room with a camera. She the lights, looked at me, and burst into laughter. She said I looked so pathetic and sorry for myself that it was hilarious. So pathetic she said, and then she took pictures of me in bed with the plaster on my forehead. She shoved the camera into my face, all the while laughing at how pathetic I was.

After some time however, she did leave me alone, and I slept uneasily. It was the school holidays, and the next day my mum had off, so I was meant to stay home and not go to child-care. However, anxious and scared of being alone with my mum, I went anyway. I explained the plaster and cut away with me bumping into a shelf or something, and I got to forget about what had happened the day before while playing with the other kids. However a little before lunch, they got a call from my mum telling me to come home, so I reluctantly and somberly walked home. Once home my mum cornered me and hugged me, saying how she was so sorry. She had bought me four books as presents, or bribes rather, and asked for forgiveness. I said yes because of course. I was terrified of her, how would I ever go against anything she said? 

I didn't forgive her though. That was probably when I started realising that something wasn't right with the way she was treating me, but I was still so ashamed and digusted with myself, not to mention afraid, that I didn't tell anyone else for a long time.

Really, once we had moved back to New Zealand, my life was relatively uneventful for a while. It wasn't until I entered my first year of high school at age 13 that another straw was added to my already overloaded camel's back.

However, that will have to wait until next time.

To anybody who is reading this, thank you. If anybody has gone through similar experiences like the most recent one I shared, always remember that it isn't your fault. There is no excuse for somebody physically, mentally or emotionally abusing you. It doesn't matter if 'it's for your own good' or if they say it's because of something you did or who you are. It doesn't matter. There is NO excuse for abuse. Who they say you are, and what they say you've done, doesn't matter. Trust your own memories, and your own recollections of what happened. Don't let people put events into your head, or make you doubt your own memories, thoughts, or even your own personality. You know yourself, and what they say you are isn't true. Even if it was, it doesn't warrant abuse.

There is no excuse, and it doesn't matter what the circumstances are. Abuse in any form is not okay.