Personal Story

Experts Say One Loving Parent Is Enough. Sometimes That Person Isn‘t a Parent

My parent's hated each other so much, they forgot that I was worthy of love.

Anonymous

11 Jun 2026 • 3 min read

Love can keep you safe during the hardest time

I've been in therapy on and off for many years. I come with some small issue, and then we unravel something huge together. I am sick of it, tired of being so fucking traumatised by the people who were supposed to protect me and love me.

Too many therapists have considered me a success story, but it never made sense until recently. 'Like dude, I am sitting here sobbing in front of you and I can't get my life together.' What were my options? You get up, and you get on with life. It wasn't until I started working with someone new who mentioned something similar that it dawned on me that my choice was death. Maybe therapists aren't allowed to say it? I never wanted to die, but I would go to bed at night and pray that I didn't wake up in the morning.

I was tired of being hated and alone.

The parents got divorced badly. The amount of hurt, hate, and anger between the two of them never stopped. One night in bed, listening to my dad complaining about my mother to his brother, I realised I was no longer loved. Abandoned by both emotionally. I was scolded a lot for someone who did their best to not exist.

They both saw me as the other parent.

When I read a book curled up on the sofa, I was just like my mother. When I scowled at the person who left the toothpaste cap off, I was just like my father.

The outcome of this abuse? I raised myself to not exist. I had to hide myself from them, from you, from me. I consciously made myself smaller and smaller until I exploded and then shrunk again to the size of a pea. Avoiding being like her or him was a full-time occupation that forced me to dismiss getting to know me.

I lived in a state of permanent fear of being berated for breathing, for not taking the bins out, for studying too hard, for not studying hard enough.

I taught myself not to sleep just so I could enjoy the silence of a quiet home in the early hours. I taught myself to share as little as possible, but when a kind friend or stranger asked me a question, I couldn't stop over-sharing. Finally, there was someone who wanted to listen to me. Scraps of attention made me feel loved and seen.

I would look in the mirror and try to erase myself. Have you ever tried that? Stare at yourself in front of a mirror until you start to disappear.

Finally, I left home to be alone and make a new life. It doesn't work that way. You can't run from it. It catches up with you just as things are going great. Sharing this with you makes me feel so fucked up. I hate it. I am traumatised, but not suicidal, not enough to hurt myself or numb myself with drugs or alcohol. So not fucked up enough- and this is where my success lies.

The abuse was a lot worse than the little I am sharing here.

It took a while for the therapist and me to work out why I am still alive. Session after session, constructing my sense of self and finally asking for a guide in our meditation work. Who appears? My grandpa! I loved that man so much, he was my first best friend, and he was always there for me. When I imagine god, I imagine him. He would laugh with me, play with me, sing bad songs, teach me how to fix things, and how to plant things. Turns out having him in my life until he suddenly died was enough to keep me from giving up on life. He died when I was young, soon after their divorce, and although it hurt, it turns out his love for me burns bright inside of me.

Apparently, it doesn't matter that both my parents are abusive. It took the love of one person who cared and turned up to make all the difference. Still in therapy, still struggling, but now in my hard moments, I imagine he is there next to me listening, patting me on the shoulder, and I know that one day I will be OK.

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