"He's going to hell. Get over it."

My father was absent basically my whole life, but at the beginning of 2015, we started going to counseling, in an attempt to work on our relationship. 

On May 28th of that year, my 15-year-old brother and best friend was accidentally struck and killed by a train. 

My mother called my father to tell him that I wouldn't be able to go to counseling the next day, since I hadn't slept all night while I waited for the coroner to confirm that the body was in fact my brother's.

After my mom yelled at my father for fifteen minutes, she handed me the phone. The only words that slipped out of his mouth were, "He committed suicide. It's his fault. He's going to hell, so just get over it."

That was the last time I really talked to my father. 

It'll be two years in May, and those words have always been and always will be echoing in the back of my brain. I know that my brother didn't die by suicide. But I can still hear those words. "He's going to hell. Get over it." 
 

"What's wrong with you?"

I was in an emotionally abusive relationship for four years of my young adult life. 

One particularly rough day at the beginning of the relationship, my boyfriend said something that cut very deep, bringing me to tears. 

As I sat on the couch crying, he stood in the doorway and stared me down, completely infuriated. 

He said, "What's wrong with you?! This is over if you don't stop crying."

"You made it."

After graduating from high school at 18, I fell into a life of drugs and alcohol. I wanted to get clean, so I went to my grandmother's house. Our relationship wasn't great, but she had offered me a place to stay if I was ever in need. Strung out on meth and cocaine, I called her numerous times on the way to her house, but she didn't answer. Once I arrived at her house, she didn't answer the door. The police showed up and told me to get off the property. 

That night I slept at the bus stop around the corner from her house. I slept in the snow. 

The next morning I called my uncle who lived in another state, begging for help. All he did was give me my father's phone number. My only memory of my father was him locking me in the closet while he beat my mother. When I got ahold of him, he said, "Don't you get the point? I didn't want you then, and I don't want you now." 

I went back to my mother's house, who started crying when she saw what I had become. She helped me get off the drugs and back on my feet. 

I am now 20 years old and two years clean. I have two jobs and am in college online. I've met an amazing guy who has a similar history and is three years clean. My mom and I have an amazing relationship.

What stuck with me wasn't all the horrible things that were said to me over the years. It's what my boyfriend and mom tell me every day. 

"You're beautiful and amazing." 

"Thank you for being sober." 

"You made it." 

No matter how much my family screwed me over, I made it! 
 

"Even though you didn't really want to."

I was cuddling with my boyfriend one day, and he wanted to get intimate but I didn't. He told me to just give it a go, and he pushed my hands onto his privates. Every time I moved my hand away, he held it back there. Eventually I gave in.

Later, he asked, "So did you enjoy what we did earlier? Even though you didn't really want to?" 

I was stunned. He knew I didn't want to, yet he still made me do it.

"I hope you have a heart attack!"

When I was 13, I stole some Halloween candy from the bowl before trick-or-treaters showed up, even though my mom told me not to. She found out and became very angry and told me I'd get diabetes.

She sent me to my room, and as I was walking up the stairs, she yelled, "I hope you have a heart attack! And you can sit in your room and rot."

I've never forgotten that.

"Don't let it get to you."

When I was in middle school, I was the awkward kid who was constantly picked on for things like my name and how I dressed. One day on my walk to class (which always felt like a battlefield because people shot me with teasing words) a group of girls started laughing at me and commenting on my shoes.

Later on in class, one of the most popular guys in school came up to me and said, "You know they're jealous of you because you are ten times prettier than they are." 

At that point I thought I was hallucinating. I couldn't believe that someone like him would even talk to me, let alone compliment me. 

He continued, "Don't let it get to you. One day they'll be begging you to be their friend."

His words honestly changed my entire perspective on myself and the reason I was always called out. 
 

Thanks, Grandma.

Every time I see my grandma, she tells me I'm fat. 

I was never insecure about my weight until she made comments about it.

I WAS happy with myself, but now I don't even want to eat. I don't even want to see my grandma anymore.

Whore

One day when I was 20, I was driving to hospice with my parents to visit my aunt, who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. I had my headphones in, but I had paused the music, and I overheard my parents talking about one day having grandkids.

My dad said to my mom, "I hope my granddaughter doesn't turn out to be a f*cking whore like her mom." 

I've always tried to forget this, but I can't seem to.

Disappointed.

My mother once told me that my father who is deceased would be disappointed in the person I've become, because I am transgender.

"The Jungle's back!"

I'm of East Indian/West Indian heritage, and growing up in Canada, I had more body hair than other girls in my class. I was often teased about it and was called hairy, gorilla, nasty and more. I was miserable because I was in middle school and my mother wouldn't let me shave. 

In seventh grade, my family went away for Christmas and my parents decided to extend our vacation by a week. The day I returned to school, I was the first one in homeroom, and was surprised that the few classmates who came in after welcomed me back. One guy came in, smiled brightly and said "Good to have you back!" Seriously, I started doubting my sanity and wondering if I had misjudged everyone all along. 

Then I heard the same kid out in the hallway by the lockers say, "Hey everyone! Guess what? The Jungle's back!" Everyone laughed like crazy as usual. 

I'm now 37 and have married and had kids. But the scars have lasted a lifetime and I still feel ugly and hairy and disgusted with myself, even though I shave and wax. I feel uncomfortable and gross inside my own body. I am withering inside. I know I should just get over it already, but I can't.