Im in my late twenties, in my third trimester of pregnancy and only recently starting to understand that the way I grew up wasn’t normal or healthy. I always told myself “it couldn’t have been that bad” because my dad sent me to a good school, we went on some nice holidays, and Christmas was always big with lots of presents. Those things made me feel like I had no right to question anything.
But behind closed doors, he was a completely different person.
His mood was bad all the time — drinking or not. The whole house revolved around him. We had to tiptoe constantly. If he walked into a room, we’d leave. If we were watching a movie in the lounge room, he’d sit down silently until we got up and moved. It was like we weren’t allowed to exist comfortably around him.
There was no joy unless it was on his terms. No loud music, no singing, no real laughter unless it was laughing at his jokes. Anything he didn’t personally approve of wasn’t allowed. Even hobbies — if he didn’t like it, we weren’t doing it or he wouldn’t fund it.
My older brother was physically and emotionally abusive toward us, and my parents did nothing. They let it happen. They never protected us. It taught me early that my safety wasn’t important.
There was financial control too. When my nan passed away, she left me money. My dad kept it in an account and refused to let me access it, even when I was in my late twenties. I had to ask him for my own inheritance, and he’d still say no. I was never taught anything about financial independence.
Education was another area where I was set up to fail. I struggled with reading and writing, and instead of helping me, he’d humiliate me. He’d call me into the lounge room and demand I recite my times tables. If I got it wrong, he’d laugh, call me an idiot, say I was being a baby.
What’s hitting me now is how much I minimised all of this because of the “good” things he did. I used those moments as proof that I shouldn’t complain. But those things were surface-level. They didn’t change the day‑to‑day reality of fear, control, and emotional abuse.
Since becoming pregnant, all these memories have been coming back. Things I hadn’t thought about in years are suddenly popping into my head. I’m grieving the childhood I didn’t get, and I’m trying to understand how to break these patterns when I’m only just naming them.
I guess I’m posting because I don’t know how to reconcile the two versions of him — the one who bought nice presents and the one who made our home feel unsafe. How do you come to terms with the fact that the people who raised you also harmed you? How do you move forward when you’re still unpacking what actually happened?