My Story (Part 1) *trigger warning*

I entered this world the daughter of an absent father and very mentally unwell mother and the younger sibling of an angry sister. We grew up in a poor area in Scotland and I have little to no happy memories of it. My mother divorced my father when I was about 2/3 years old. I have no memories of him at this time. My mother had custody of me and my sister and we moved from place to place, school to school, around the country about every 3- 6 months or every term. My mother was emotionally unavailable and mentally unstable, a zombie or highly irritable. She self harmed and frequently tried to take her own life. We would stay with her current boyfriend or went to my grandparents when this would happen. At those times we'd go and see her on the ward and she'd cry and hug us. This was the only times she really showed emotion or affection.

During this time, I never really knew if I was coming or going, everything was so unstable. I never felt safe and I just wanted my mum to stay alive and be okay. I'd not cry but plead with her to get better. My sister felt angry and resentful towards my mother, but for me I just felt pity and sorrow. I wanted to look after and protect her and never see her cry. My sister wanted desperately to live with my Dad and as the older child she had memories of him that I didn't and they had a bond. My mother and sister had never really bonded and my sister was angry and demanding and often bullied and was violent towards me. My Mum would try to intervene, but struggled to cope.

My dad would drive a long way from Wales to come and pick us up for the holidays and we'd go to stay with my grandparents. This was nice as my grandparents were gentle and kind and my dad, although still working lots, would appear and take us places and appeared mostly jolly and pleasant. I was a quiet child and watchful and remained in the background but these were happier times. They took us to church and despite colouring during the whole service, I would listen and I would eventually go back to my mum's and tell kids secretly messages from church I'd heard.

Going back to my mum's was always bittersweet. I missed her and wanted to know she was safe and did want to remain with her, but hated moving all the time and her moods and her inevitable suicide attempts. I couldn't understand why I wasn't good enough for her to stay alive for. Any friends I made in school I would lose when we moved again and I was constantly defending myself from my sister. Life was very hard. I remember trying to run away, teddies in hand, to my Dads, waiting at a bus stop after sneaking out and then when no bus came and it was raining, I returned home to realise I hadn't been missed.

Eventually, after another suicide attempt my mum was sectioned and held on a long term mental health ward, despite trying to evade this by moving around the country. She allowed my father to have us temporarily and we went to stay with him and my grandparents in Wales. Again, it was mostly happy but it was at this point I remember getting glimpses of my father's anger and feeling apprehensive about being close to him and whether he could be trusted.

When my mum was out of hospital, we went back to living with her - new flat, new school, new life - again. But she moved us to Wales to be closer to my dad and my grandparent and we got to see them more often. My dad would come and take us swimming and to the park on the weekend. Until of course, my mum was back in hospital. She then agreed for us to stay with my dad and grandparents permanently. So we moved again and this time we visited my mum on the weekends, although that was often just heartbreaking. I hated seeing her so unwell and upset and hated hospitals and doctors. I started a new school near my grandparents and just remember feeling in a bubble. I hardly spoke and I cried a lot and when I did, kids made fun of me because of my accent.

Eventually, I did make some friends and there became a resemblance of routine and normality, although I sorely missed my mum and worried about her. My grandpa died and I became incredibly close to my grandma and adored spending time with her. I was closer to her than either of my parents. My dad continued to show glimpses of his anger and he scared me and my grandma would sometimes intervene. I wasn't close to my dad or my sister. My dad and sister liked spending time together and he even took her on holiday abroad and I stayed with my grandma. This was the way I liked it.

We eventually moved out of my grandma's house to a small run down house which smelled of cat urine and had no heating. My sister started attending high school near our new house, while I continued to go to my grandma's to attend lower school. It was then my grandma got diagnosed with bowel cancer, she fought it and it was painful to watch her so frail. She moved house and I said goodbye to the only I ever called home. She died some months after, during the holidays leading to my transition to high school.

So it was that in one fell swoop, I lost my grandma and lost my friends, as my preplanned high school was changed. This was difficult for me and I don't think I really processed it but ate my feelings and hid away. School for me was pretty horrible for the first two years, I was bullied a lot and only really had one friend. I was overweight and poor and kids were unkind. My father became increasingly angry and more controlling. We moved churches and I was seeing more of my sister, who was cruel and mean the vast majority of the time. I tried to spend most of my time at my mums and my best friends (only friends). My mum would hate taking me back to my dads, she saw how angry and aggressive he could be and how he made me do housework far exceeding the normal and in vast contrast to what was expected of my older sister. There became real polarity between the way my dad treated me and the way he treated my sister. It was made clear to me that I was less than nothing. I was to be seen but not heard and I was to never voice my thoughts or feelings. I was explicitly told, they didn't matter.

My mum's mental health eventually started plummeting again. I watched as she got into manic episodes, self harming, cutting her hair off, inviting druggies and thieves into the house and random men. I tried to talk to her, reason and help her. When I was 12 she took an overdose, was hearing voices and set the next door neighbours house on fire and then lay on the sofa, setting her own house a blaze, preparing to die. She was rescued and she was taken away in a police car in the middle of the night. I remember watching, horrified as she was taken away. It was in the papers and kids at school knew. We went to visit her in prison and she was on suicide watch. She was thin, fragile looking, shaking and crying. It was horrible.

She pleaded insanity and then went to a high security mental assylum where she spent the next 6 years. Those 6 years were my worst. My sister and I were taken by a social worker during school hours to see her for an hour a week. The journey took longer than the visit and it was very wooden and mechanical meetings. Hard to know what to say, except get well. Held in a small padded family room with guards and locked doors and toys for children must smaller than us.

At home, silence was everything. We weren't allowed to talk about my mum, infact talking at all was dangerous. Life became hell, a prison. My father and my sister were more angry, violent and controlling than ever. My sister would fly into rages, punching me and dragging me by my hair, my father was more discreet but he would still hurt me, twisting my arms and wrists, pushing me into doors and walls, throwing objects at me and digging his finger nails into me and making death threats and threats of violence. They also began argumentative with each other, although my sister was often fiery enough that my dad mostly left her alone. I on the other hand was a target for both.

I became hypervigilant, barely letting my guard down. I would track where they were in the house and in my head work out escape routes. I sometimes slept with objects and even kitchen knives near my bed when I thought I might be in danger. I was careful. I tried to read them and work out who was safest to be around and I was careful with whatever I said, to try and mimick only what my dad would want to hear, but it was hard. There were occasions when even my silence elicited anger, he tried to force me out of moving car once for not speaking enough.

In church and in school and around company we had to act. My sister kept an eye on me in school. I once tried to tell a friend and she found out and told me 'we don't talk about that'. My dad had a look in public that he'd do, he'd bite his lip at me if I started to talk or act in a way he was displeased with and this meant that if I didn't stop, there would be trouble as soon as we were alone. It was all about control.

My sister on the other hand when she didn't just beat me up ( I did try and fight back sometimes but she was bigger than me, tall and masculine, even the boys at school were afraid of her) she used to do countdowns where she would get me to do things for her and if I didn't do it by the time the countdown was over then she'd scream and make up a lie, so my father would come in and punish both of us. She'd smirk just to see me hurt and terrified. Very, very occasionally though, she did intervene on my behalf and protect me from my dad and we did very occasionally get on when she was in a good mood. It turns out my sister was on some meds secretly that were affecting her and also in lots of emotional turmoil as she was gay and my dad was a devout strict christian. Not that this fully excuses her behaviour.

I found out these things when my dad pulled me aside and asked me to meet him secretly on a bench at lunchtime and I was told specifically not to tell my sister. I was worried but went and then was told that my dad had been spying on her and looking at her devices and found out she was gay and had a girlfriend. I was shocked but was more concerned about her safety, knowing how angry my dad could get and how this wasn't acceptable according to his beliefs. I spent the rest of the day worrying what to do, I thought I could see her first before she got home and talk to her but she left school early and when I came home, it was to shouting and tears. I tried to stand up for my sister and also find out what had happened. My sister was in tears and told me she was getting chucked out for not agreeing to stop seeing her gf, being grounded, having her phone and computer getting taken away and having to attend bible study and essentially to stop being gay. My dad said she had made a choice. He then played the victim and wanted consoling. He told me using a story analogy that my sister was now dead to him and that I was his only daughter. This was detestable to me.

My sister went to stay with friends and was soon away at university. I was alone with my father. His manner changed. He still flew into rages but he now also became sickly sweet and sometimes creepy. I'd witnessed before, in small doses, that he would try to get me to do things for him or he'd try to get me to react in ways. He wanted adoration and love. But it always had an undertone of threat behind it. It was always manipulative and I saw through it. In front of other people he was nice to me, although I mostly was ignored. But when we were at home, he was either civil when I was doing exactly what I was meant to do or he was nasty. Now, now, he was dangerous in a way I'd not experienced.

It's hard to put this into words but it felt worse to me than anything else. I was 15/16 and he started forcing me at night time, while I was wearing skimpy nightdresses to sit on his knee and tell him I loved him and kiss him on the lips. I would resist and try to run away and I'd try to peck him on the cheek instead but he'd force me to kiss him on the lips. His hands would be on my inner thighs and he would, each time, extend the time I had to kiss him for. Tears would fill my eyes, it felt disgusting and he'd get angry and tell me if I cry he'd give me a reason to cry. He'd then make me sit and compose myself on the sofa and talk to him until I convinced him that I had repressed all the emotions. He'd say God says to not be angry and that we should forgive. I'd then get out of sight and desperately wipe my lips and cry angry tears silently into my pillow, while listening out for him.

During this time I was sexually assaulted by an older boy from school who while claiming to be giving me a lift home because it was raining and so I wouldn't be late and be punished by my dad decided to lock me in his car and take me to a remote car park and try to rape me. I thankfully got away but was bruised and shaken up by the experience, to say the least. My dad didn't realise a thing, which felt like a blessing and a curse. I started cutting and bunking off school, drinking with friends. I scraped some qualifications but I ended up running away from home. I found out my mum had been released and despite being forbidden to go to my mums, my situation was too desperate and I was more and more concerned about my dad's behaviour. I wrote a note and took a small suitcase, mostly of keepsakes of my grandmas.

My father was furious and wrote threatening messages and told he has going to hunt me down. Other times he tried to be sickly sweet and manipulate me into saying where I was or meeting him in private. He stopped me getting my stuff and changed the locks on the doors within a couple of days of me leaving. I'd like to have said I lived with my mum and everything was fine. But it wasn't. She had moved in with a guy who was mentally unstable and aggressive. I struggled to find work and cried every day and I was forced to move back to my dads or be homeless. The guy my mum was with turned out later to be a lying, cheating, abusive alcoholic - my mum married and divorced him. My dad took me back, having lied to family and friends and tried to have them manipulate me into coming home, when I did return he said nothing of my absence but then told me I had a week to get a job or I was getting thrown out. I got a place in a university far away instead, on a course I didn't want to do, but it was an escape.