“I have a fucked up family, alright?!”

Both of them look at me, shocked. “You never told us.” One of them says. I wilt.

They’re my best friends, we’ve known each other for years. I’ve never told anyone this side of me, my fucked up family. I’ve hinted, perhaps.

I have an obsessive, hypocritical, short-tempered father whose touches sometimes make me uncomfortable. I have a mother who is insensitive and stubborn, who also hoards stuff. I have a brother who is always acting, waiting for the day he can move out. I am a emotionally fragile girl with an insecurity complex.

I know my problems. I know my family’s problems. None of us does anything to change anything.

As a child, I did try to tell someone. But who would understand? “They’re your parents, they know the best.” “Just wait it out.” “You’re young.” “It’s just one of those things they do.”

As a child I didn’t have the words, either. I still don’t have the words. How can I, in all essence, rat on my parents? They are my parents, after all. They love me, even though the way they love me unsettles me. They want the best for me, even if they cannot see that the other things they do distress me even more.

So forgive me if I cannot tell you. Just leave it at “I have a fucked up family”, okay?