Home is not a “home”.
Home is not a place I feel safe, loved, or wanted. And it is why I do not go home. I have gone through periods being scared of being in the same car as my father, worried he would kill me. He is a confrontational and arrogant man. It was a place where, when I was in elementary school, my father placed his hands around my neck, where he told me he wished I was never born, where he told me I owe everything to him and that I need to do everything I am told because everything I use and eat in the house is earned with his money. My parents do not get along and arguments are frequent. My parents are also controlling with my mother acting as a helicopter parent, trying to control my actions and do everything for me so she feels good with no consideration for my wants and desires. She controlled what I did – I hate piano, learning languages, swimming, and courses. she forced me into classes and tutoring because my marks were not up to her standard and I kept doing worse because I hated it all. I hated being tutored. I hated having my internet monitored. She even tries to control who I am friends with. Naturally, there are certain ethnicities and backgrounds she wishes I would not date and has gone to great lengths to intrude and stop anything like it. I hate “home”.
What kills me is that I don’t feel it is appropriate in general conversation to bring this up when people ask incredulously why I have not gone home at all.