*Content & Trigger Warnings*
Physical violence / Child abuse: Description of a severe physical assault (being slapped hard across the face by a parent).
Domestic conflict and emotional abuse: Descriptions of an unsafe household environment, intimidation, and an unsupportive bystander dynamic.
Childhood trauma and fear: Themes of intense panic, hypervigilance, and the psychological impact of growing up with abusive caregivers.
Absolute domestic bliss, wasn’t it? Nothing quite builds character like handing a seven-year-old human a mountain of greasy washing-up, a sink that towers well past their chin, and a structural engineering hazard masquerading as a wobbly wooden kitchen stool.
Apparently, UK health and safety laws—and basic child protection—were merely whimsical suggestions in our household. I was roughly the size of a standard house cat, yet somehow assigned the rigorous kitchen duties of a bustling commercial restaurant.
Standing on tiptoes on a wobbly stool just to peer over the rim of the sink, I was living proof that unpaid child labour was alive and well. The water was either scalding hot or freezing cold, the fairy washing up liquid stung my eyes, and my arms ached from the sheer, unnatural stretch of trying to reach the bottom of the washing up bowl. Every minute up there was a tightrope walk between completing an impossible task and invoking the absolute wrath of the gods.
Then, tragedy struck. A plate slipped from my very wet, soapy, undersized hands. A glorious, catastrophic smash echoed across the floor and throughout the room, shattering the large fragile dinner plate into a million tiny ceramic pieces.
Enter my father, stage left, moving with the terrifying, accelerated speed of a tactical response unit. Before I could even process the existential dread of a broken dish or that tears had already started to form in the corners of my eyes, his open hand connected with my face. Hard. The physical sting was immediate, but the sheer shock wave of it knocked the wind right out of me.
Efficiency at its finest. Why waste valuable time teaching a child how to properly handle delicate objects, explain physics, or practice patience when you can simply apply immediate, unadulterated physical violence? Problem solved! The dish was already ruined, so why not ruin the kid while we’re at it?
The Olympic Sport of Shrinking and the Supporting Cast
Details from that exact moment get a little blurry around the edges, but my getaway routine was nothing short of Olympic-grade. I bolted out of the kitchen as quick as my little legs would allow. I sprinted into the living room, and scrambled up onto the armchair in the far corner. I pressed my back as deep into those upholstery cushions as humanly possible, trying desperately to become one with the fabric. Unfortunately, physics dictates that a seven-year-old cannot compress themselves into a quantum singularity to escape parental rage, so I just had to stand there and vibrate with pure, unadulterated terror, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Bonus points to my mum, who made a rare guest appearance by briefly attempting to intervene. She actually tried to step in and say something, which lasted right up until my dad whirled around and yelled at her to stay out of it. At that precise microsecond, she promptly vanished back into the background, retreating into tactical silence. A stellar team effort. Truly, relationship goals if your idea of a partnership is mutual cowardice and Olympic-level emotional abandonment.
Decades later, the physical sting of that slap is long gone. But the mental souvenir? Impeccable.
That was the day I learned a truly valuable, life-altering lesson: the people whose literal, legally binding job description is to keep you alive and safe are actually the apex predators in your ecosystem. Absolutely smashing stuff for a developing brain.
Children are biologically hardwired to run toward their caregivers when they are scared, looking for a safe harbor from the big, scary world. But when your parents are the hazard, your nervous system has to invent entirely new, highly dysfunctional ways to cope. Hypervigilance unlocked, level one thousand achieved!
As I stood in that armchair, trembling like a wet kitten, the lingering thought wasn’t just about the broken plate or the stinging cheek. It was the crushing, psychic weight of a crystal-ball realization that no child should ever have to possess: Oh, brilliant. This is definitely going to happen again. Spoiler alert: it did.
Cheers to the Surviving Juniors and the Art of the Escape
If you, too, grew up in a home where everyday household accidents were treated like high treason, welcome to the club. We have matching anxiety disorders, a lifelong aversion to sudden loud noises, and a nervous system that still treats a dropped mug of tea like a red-code national emergency.
Writing this isn’t just about wallowing in the past; it’s about acknowledging the absolute, farcical absurdity of what we survived. We weren’t “building character”—we were dodging incoming artillery fire disguised as parenting, all while trying to figure out how to navigate a world that was supposed to protect us, but instead handed us a permanent reservation in hypervigilance.
We became absolute experts at reading the room before we even knew how to read chapter books. We learned to track the specific cadence of footsteps on the floorboards, the slamming of a door, the microscopic shifts in the air that signaled a storm was brewing. But somehow, against all odds, we made it out. We traded the wobbly footstools and the corners of those terrifying armchairs for our own lives, our own spaces, and the hard-earned wisdom that love isn’t supposed to feel like a health hazard.
Here’s to the surviving juniors. To the kids who had to grow up way too fast, who learned to hide in plain sight, and who somehow managed to piece themselves back together when no one else was going to do it for them. You are resilient, you are fierce, and you deserved so much better than a dad who thought a backhand was a reasonable housekeeping strategy.
Stay tuned for more unbelievable true stories from my highly toxic life—because if we can’t laugh at the sheer, unadulterated madness of our upbringings, the absolute absurdity of it all might just win.
Jump To My Other Pages
Rising and Repeating Cycles of this Phoenix– Home Page/About Me
Rising from the Rubble – What the Phoenix Cycle Taught Me About Living with C-PTSD
The Spicy Remake No one Asked For – PTSD Vs Complex PTSD (cPTSD)
Tactical Escapism – My Coping Mechanisms
Rising and Repeating – Cycles of this Phoenix 
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