My Parents Almost Killed Me

Chapter 6: Support ?

By now, it should be clear—I've endured a lot, both physically and mentally. Through most of it, I never really had the support I needed. Whatever support I did get from my parents rarely felt genuine. It was hollow, just enough to say they did something, but never enough to make me feel truly seen or valued.

In 2021, I started my own cosmetic business. I won't mention the name because I don't want pity sales when I reopen. This business is my baby. I take, and still take, so much pride in it. It wasn't just some side hustle to me—it was the one thing that made me feel alive in the midst of everything. I started it with Tonya, but it was already in motion before my mom suggested I bring her on board.

I poured myself into it, spent countless hours coming up with ideas, refining them, and putting in the work. But my mom? She shot down almost everything. She never really credited me for my part in my own business. To her, it was like the entire business was my sister's work. I didn't mind her praising my sister—it's what moms do. But what stung was how, every time I got excited to show her something I had done, or a new idea I was proud of, she just didn't care.

The favoritism was blatant. My sister could post something I'd suggested, and my mom would be full of praise. But if I came up with a new strategy or product? Silence. It was like she didn't see me, like I wasn't worth the acknowledgment. I felt like she only supported the business when my sister was involved. The moment my sister stepped away, the support vanished. That said more to me than words ever could.

Then there was the expectation for free products. My mom thought she deserved free glosses or at least a discount. For what? The supplies weren't cheap, and the process of making them was tedious. What had she done to deserve free products? All she'd ever given me was trauma.

I'm still running the business, still paying all the bills, but I've had to take a pause. I don't have the space to fully commit to it while living in their house. And if I've learned anything, it's that I won't let anyone, not even my own family, make me feel small in something I've built from the ground up.

     Recently, I started a TikTok account dedicated to ice eating. It was a random discovery—one day, I fell into the world of Ice TikTok, and before I knew it, I wanted to start my own page. So far, it's been incredible. The support I've received, especially for someone who's just started, has been healing. It's comforting to know there are people out there who genuinely support you, even if they're strangers online.

But as with everything I build, someone always finds a way to ruin it. I had these colorful, bright ice molds—each one carefully chosen—lined up in the freezer, ready for use. I was excited. Then, out of nowhere, my mother placed raw meat directly on top of them. Just like that, I couldn't use most of them anymore. There was no apology, no reimbursement for what I'd lost. Nothing.

It's exhausting—trying to build something for myself, only for people to come along and tear it down. When I first told her about my ice page, she immediately dismissed it, calling it "weird." And yet, she claims she didn't notice the molds in the freezer. But how could you miss them? They were bright, colorful, and in clear, distinct shapes. She placed the meat right on top of them.

What bothers me most isn't just the carelessness, though. It's the way she acts like I'm the one who's done something wrong. My things were ruined, but now I'm the problem? An apology—just a simple, sincere apology—would have made all the difference. But instead, I'm left wondering why it always seems like everything I care about gets treated as though it doesn't matter.
  

Once again, another argument with the sperm donor. Fast forward to Saturday, October 7th, 2024. It's a regular day—I'm waiting on packages and watching a show. I head to the kitchen to throw out my ice molds. They'd been sitting in the freezer, untouched, ever since my mother ruined them with the raw meat, waiting until I could replace them. As I toss them into the trash, the bag gives out. No surprise there—five molds in a flimsy bag barely hanging on the door. "Ridiculous," I mutter as the bag falls to the ground.

I turn to close the freezer, but it jams. We have one of those bottom freezers, and I always forget to push the tray in first. Not thinking much of it, I walk off, assuming it's closed. Barely paying attention, I head back to the living room, only to be yelled at by my mom. Apparently, she's under the impression my frustration was aimed at her. Ironically, she's the one not speaking to me, which, in her mind, is somehow my fault.

I tell her to stop talking to me. Why is she yelling? That's how most of our arguments start—with them inserting themselves into situations that have nothing to do with them.

She storms off upstairs, no doubt to complain to the sperm donor. The irony doesn't escape me. She talks so much about him—how he doesn't help with the bills, his bad hygiene, the endless list of grievances. Yet, when she needs someone to gang up on me, she runs straight to him. They do everything in their power to make me feel small.

The sperm donor decided to make a run, leaving the house for a while. When he returned, he stepped through the door and immediately asked, "Who's slamming stuff now?" The thing is, nothing had been slammed in the first place. In fact, even my mother questioned him, "What are you talking about?" It turned out he had heard a car door slamming outside. But that question echoed in my mind: "Who's slamming stuff now?" Where did he get the idea that anything was being slammed?

Remember how my mom had ran upstairs earlier to talk about me? That's classic sperm donor behavior—he hears one side of the story and immediately jumps to conclusions. He's always been a terrible father, trying to compensate for his failings with materialistic gifts like electronics. A new phone doesn't erase the trauma or the years of being a lousy parent. No one knows what it's like to have a father physically present, only to feel like he's still absent. It's a waste of a person.

Feeling fed up with this toxic environment, I decided to start packing some things up for motivation. I thought that seeing boxes filled with my belongings would push me to work harder at escaping this situation. I began with my business items; after all, I wasn't selling anything at the moment anyway.

Since the sperm donor had offended me earlier, I had no desire to engage with him. I told both him and my mother they were being childish after the ridiculous events of the day. Like clockwork, history repeated itself, and this time, I refused to be the victim. He was supposed to come downstairs to put the food away and head back upstairs, but instead, he took an interest in what I was doing with my business stuff. Why did it matter to him? It wasn't his business; it was mine, and I had every right to move my things whenever I pleased.

I calmly explained that I wanted to pack my items as part of my plan to eventually move out. But once again, I was unheard and cut off. He brought up the ice molds and decided to defend my mother, despite not being there when she had ruined them. I could already picture the freezer, the trays that needed to be pushed in before closing, and the brightly colored molds she had ignored. There was no way she could have missed them.

What started as a simple conversation quickly escalated into a full-blown argument. I was called a "bitch," and in return, I yelled back. He threatened me, and I couldn't help but think, what kind of man threatens a woman? As he approached me, I pushed him away, but he grabbed my arm. This time, I refused to be a victim. I fought back, pushing him again. I began recording him as he pretended to clean the house, all while touching my things, including the poly mailer that had held my recent package. I will insert if possible.

I was tag teamed and shown once again nothing that I cared about or loved mattered to anyone.