My relationship with my mother and sister only worsened as I grew older. I became as they described a “spoilt, selfish brat”. I was not a rebel I never acted “wild” although many a time they often accused me of it. I just wasn’t my sister. She was my mother’s confidante, she listened to her. She was quiet, academic, intelligent and dependable. I on the other hand was a loose cannon. My mood swings fluctuated daily. I was irritable and wound up by their presence. I seemed to love drama and allowed it to follow me around. I was just a nuisance to them. At least in some way I was still a part of their life, I wasn’t shut out completely. I just wanted her to notice me.
During these years my father did the unthinkable. He spent all his energy convincing me I was unloved by my mother and sister, that they hated me. He would tell me openly if he heard them criticise or insult me. Every day there was something new to tell me. As I walked in the door from school he would beckon me to his room to discuss the events of his day, what he had heard. The door would be locked of course.
Although as a young child I worshipped him, my mother has always had deep concerns. He, in her eyes showed signs of abuse very early on.
He has always crossed boundaries and saw nothing wrong in doing so. Not just with me but also my sister. His touch, his kiss, nothing felt right. It was always too affectionate. I always felt uncomfortable and that he was crossing some sort of forbidden line. But I could never voice this, not back then anyway.