🚨 open door policy, but make it traumatizing

🚨 trigger warning: familial sexual misconduct, trauma reactivation

not graphic.
but it’s real.
and it’s fucking disgusting.
read with caution.
skip if you need.
this is for survivors who know
the exact acoustics of a nightmare being normalized.

…

shit started after the divorce.
this dumb-fuck got his own place
and magically forgot doors existed.
never closed one again.
ever.

and i’m not being fucking dramatic.
i’m being dead-inside accurate.

we got dropped off
some random ass weekend—
him? thrilled.
new nikes.
fast food.
chill vibes only.
me?
just trying to disappear into the walls.

so we’re trying to sleep—
like first night.
then we fucking heard it.
the sound.
you know the one.
the kind literally no child should ever hear from their parent’s room.
and we just stared at each other
blinking, like:
yo, what the actual fuck was that?

but it happened again.
then again.
then louder.
then more often.
then—
fuck—
it became background noise.
our new soundtrack,
no consent required.
like a fucked-up sitcom
laugh track i couldn’t mute.

thought that was bad?
nah, we went global.

first-ever duo trip.
i’m studying abroad—
he’ll take full advantage of that.
(my mom paid my tuition/all fees)
this man books a hostel in london.
fucking side-by-side beds.
right
fucking
over
there.

same sound.
same trauma,
international edition.
like, congrats—
my abuse has a passport stamp now.
and it’s incestuous.

i’m like a low-level adult now.
i think: surely now, people will listen.
i try explaining.
i get the classic remix:
he’s just weird.
he doesn’t realize.
he’s narcissistic.
it’s not intentional.

funny how no one calls me
a fucking liar.
just dramatic.
just sensitive.
just,
you know,
ruining the vibe.

so i stop trying to explain,
because explaining makes it real
and reality ruins
this dumpster-fucking-fire of a family.

fast forward.
full grow up.
fall in love.
get pregnant.
get trapped.
get punched.
a lot.
run for my life.
where do i land?
back in this hellhole—
with my baby.

surely now he’ll stop.
i’m an adult.
i have a fucking child.
he’s literally a grandfather.

nope.
just hits pause.
waits until my counterpart’s asleep.
waits until it’s just me,
washing bottles,
folding tiny-ass clothes,
telling myself
“it’s not gonna happen again.”

buzz kill: it fucking does.
full-body freeze.
trauma flashbacks
like a greatest-hits compilation from hell.
and me standing there,
silently begging the air for mercy,
as if the air ever heard me before.

then we hit a bonus round of hell
i didn’t even know existed.
(!!!!!!!!!!)

because now—
get this—
i’m literally caregiving for this man.
me and my toddler
bringing tea,
making snacks,
like some twisted domestic goddess shit
i never signed up for.

middle of the fucking day.
eyes closed.
door open.
zero shame.
full visual.
pretends:
not to notice us.

i freeze.
i hide.
i dissociate so hard
my soul leaves my body for a smoke break.

and again, i try telling someone—anyone.
their response?
cue the remix again:
i got jokes.
i got weird hand gestures.
i got—
oh, he probably doesn’t even notice.
oh, you’re probably misinterpreting.
oh, it’s his house, you know.

right.
i noticed.
my nervous system definitely noticed.
but sure.
i’m the problem.
got it.

trapped between a dude who beats me
and a father who weaponizes
silence and sickness like a professional victim,
i try to find air.
try to pretend cleaning will erase it.

so i scrub carpets.
vacuum stairs.
disinfect counters.
i keep smiling at my daughter
like the world isn’t on fire.

now we’re alone.
baby-daddy dipped.

then one sunny sunday,
vacuum humming,
child behind me,
i pass the fucking door again,
FUCKING CASUALLY.
and there it is—
AGAIN.
and my soul?
leaves my fucking body again.
stands in the hallway with me,
dead-eyed and dry-heaving.

(I FUCKING HATE YOU)

and the bonus,
the absolute punchline
of the whole fucked-up joke?
i’m the one they call angry.
i’m the ungrateful one.
i’m the one that got—
kicked the fuck out.
with a baby.
in january.
me.
not him.
not them.
me.

i repeat:
we confronted him.
he increasingly got more violent.
and kicked us the fuck out.

left with whatever
we could fit in the subaru.
six months—
one bag of clothes.
me.
a dog.
a baby.
repurchased—
every.
single.
thing.
my daughter needed.
**thanks to:
my best friend.
and instagram.

as if anger isn’t the only sane response
to this absolute fucking demon-circus.
as if survival isn’t exhausting enough
without being told you’re doing it fucking wrong.

that night,
washing sippy cups,
thinking about how this man has never actually seen me—
not as a daughter.
not as a mother.
just a prop,
a set piece in his performance of integrity.

a fucking body.

just something to step over on the way to his next fucking victim.

so yeah.
does this shit make you feel sick? good.
that means you’re paying attention.

i still feel sick, too—
and he still has all our shit.