Mom

Walking into the house I grew up in, you can immediately feel bad energy. That night specifically, I could feel it in the depths of my bones.

I was really bad at giving Mom the "right" answer when she was mad. I tended to shut down, and it was as if my brain couldn't think straight.
"Look at me when I talk to you" she spat, slamming her fist on the kitchen table that she'd sat me at two hours before when the lecture began.
I immediately brought my line of vision back to her face as I shrunk into the chair.
My eyes filled with tears of frustration and fear, knowing full well that I would never have the answers to make any of this better, regretting ever even going outside that day.
"Shut up or I'll give you something to cry about. I haven't even put a fucking hand on you" she threatened, mumbling something about how I'd probably love it if she did. How I wanted her to hit me so I could feel sorrier for myself. My eyes lowered as I sucked my breath in to hold back the tears.
"Answer my fucking questions and look at me when I speak to you. You're ten years old, you should know how to form a more developed sentence than 'I don't know', mensa" I nodded.
Silent tears poured down my face and my gaze lowered. She made a small growling sound before forcefully pushing her chair back and standing up.
Every muscle in my body froze.

This is a story about my life, the ups, the downs, and the tumultuous path to recovery after 16 years of abuse. I hope this manages to assist those going through or recovering from similar situations to mine.