mynamesearn

Ok, that might sound harsh, but it’s the truth. My family is the perfect example of what happens when people who shouldn’t be together are stuck in the same house, trying to make it work. The reality is, we’re all trapped under one roof, and it’s hard to ignore the tension that fills the air every single day.

There’s resentment, anger, and years of unresolved pain hanging like a dark cloud over everything we do. Despite all this, we somehow coexist, and no matter how dysfunctional we might seem, we’ve managed to stay together, at least physically. Emotionally, though? That’s another story.

And let me be clear right from the start: this post isn’t about fixing things or offering solutions. It’s not about pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. I’m not here to offer empty advice or to tell you that things will get better if you just think positively. No, this is about survival. It’s about what it takes to get through each day in a house where love is complicated and happiness feels like a fleeting concept.

I’m still in the process of surviving, of learning how to live with all this weight and not let it crush me. It’s been a long road, and some days feel easier than others. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned throughout this experience, it’s this: If I can make it through this, I can make it through anything.

No matter how difficult things get, no matter how heavy the emotional load, I’ve learned that survival is about resilience, about finding small ways to keep going, even when everything around you feels like it’s falling apart. And for me, that’s the real victory.

Let’s start with my family background, shall we? My house is full of people, six, including me. First, my grandma. She was the true motherly figure in our home. Traditional, of course, who wouldn’t be, given the time she grew up in? She spent her life cooking, baking, and taking care of everyone. You might be wondering, where’s grandpa? Oh, he was out there messing around with someone else.

My grandma had a soft spot for bad boys. She loved love, like, no matter how many times he cheated, he always had a home to come back to. He even had a child with another woman. And guess what? When that child grew up and had his own messed-up life, my grandma took him in too.

She took care of everyone except herself. But I can’t deny that she spoiled me. She paid for my education, my impulsive dreams, everything. Without her, I’d probably be on the streets right now. I wasn’t always the best to her, but I wasn’t the worst either. I cooked with her, baked cookies with her, spent time with her. I think one time we were out driving, and for some reason, the car stopped on the road, and we couldn’t start it again. We had to call someone to help, something like that. 

And she always told this story to others like it was such a big deal, the fact that I didn’t yell at her or get angry that the car wouldn’t start. Like, why would I blame her for that? But the thing is, if she were with my grandpa or my dad, she would’ve been blamed, like it was somehow her fault. She passed almost two years ago now, but sometimes I still think of her.

Now, onto my parents, the second group of miserable people. They met in school when they were 17. From the very start, their relationship was built on conflict. They fought constantly, over everything, and I grew up watching it, absorbing it. It was never a peaceful home, just a place filled with tension and unspoken pain. My mom had a tough life. She grew up in extreme poverty, in a ghetto neighborhood, under the roof of an abusive mother.

She was the eldest of two daughters, and even as a child, she was labeled the “difficult one” while her younger sister was seen as the obedient, well-behaved one. That shaped her, made her stubborn, made her constantly feel like she had to prove herself. But more than anything, it made her struggle with self-love. She never learned how to be kind to herself because no one else ever was.

Then there’s my dad. His childhood wasn’t much better. He grew up watching his father cheat on his mother, over and over again. His mother, my grandmother, was the only person who truly took care of him, and yet, he still held resentment toward her, maybe because she tolerated so much. My dad also has a younger brother, my uncle, a man whose life is a mess of gambling, stealing, and lying. But honestly? My dad isn’t much different. Sure, he has a job, but he’s never truly taken care of anyone but himself.

For years, my mom and I made excuses for him. We convinced ourselves that maybe he was just emotionally stunted, incapable of being more. But then, two years ago, everything changed. We found out he had a mistress. Not just a recent affair, no, this had been going on for ten years. A whole decade of lies. Can you even imagine? It shattered my mom.

She had already spent 20 years with him, and now she felt like all of it had been for nothing. He didn’t respect her as a partner, as a wife, or even as a friend. And yet, they’re still together not because of love, but because my mom has no job, no savings, no real escape plan.

She still sleeps in the same room as him. Every day, I see it draining her, breaking her down piece by piece. And my dad? He doesn’t care. He walks around with that same cold detachment, as if he’s incapable of feeling guilt. It’s like he can’t stand himself, so instead, he makes sure to drag everyone else down with him.

Growing up in this environment, I was angry, a lot. I was hit until I bled. My parents told me how ugly I was, that I shouldn’t have been born. But I understand now that it was never about me. My dad’s anger came from his own father’s neglect.

My mom’s resentment came from never feeling beautiful, from being ashamed of who she was. Their pain had nothing to do with me, but as a kid, you don’t know that. Your brain just absorbs everything, programming you to believe that you will never be good enough, beautiful enough, or capable of anything. 

Even when my mom apologized after hitting me, it didn’t erase the pain, the blood, or the memories. You can’t take away the pain you caused an eight-year-old child for simply spilling a drink or just being a kid. You can’t take away the memory of me feeling my own blood clots when my mom hit me with a thick landscape book in the head.

The sudden rush of pain, the metallic taste of blood, the way my nose started bleeding, and the clots that came out of my mouth, I can still feel the taste of it. Even now, I know it was never about me, but once you’ve experienced that, it stays with you.

But this isn’t a post about me crying over my past. It’s about survival. And I survived. I didn’t let their problems become mine. Of course, in my teenage years, I messed up. I got involved with the wrong people. I hated myself. I wanted to die. But now, at 26, I refuse to let my parents’ issues consume me. It’s hard when you have no siblings to confide in, and when your parents aren’t your safe space. But I became my own safe space. And that’s what survival is.

I think what helped me remain human, what kept me functioning, was a few key things: myself, education, and my friends. I’m thankful that at least my grandmother paid for my schooling all the way through university. That’s where I met the people I now call friends, the people who kept me grounded.

Without them, I honestly don’t know how I would have survived. But above all, the most important thing was myself. I had a part of me that still believed in me, that refused to give up, even when everything felt hopeless. That belief, that small but persistent voice, was what kept me going.

All that said, my family isn’t all bad. They’re just trying, in their own way, and maybe that’s all they can do. I’m working on understanding them, but I also need to protect my own peace. It’s not all their fault, I wouldn’t be who I am without them. The person I’ve become is shaped by each of them, and if they were perfect, I wouldn’t be who I am today.

And, honestly, I’m not a bad person. Maybe that’s proof they’re doing something right or maybe it’s just me. But in the end, I don’t think it matters to know. What matters is that I’ve learned to cope with it. It’s taken a long time, but I’m getting there.

So, how do you survive a home like this? You don’t escape it entirely, but you manage it. You learn that their pain isn’t yours. You learn to be alone, to rely on yourself. And you decide what you will and won’t carry forward. For me, that means I won’t have kids. It’s not just about money; it’s about breaking cycles, about healing wounds that shouldn’t be passed down.

I don’t know if I actually told you how to survive this or if I just vented. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe survival is just talking about it, acknowledging it, and realizing that despite everything, you made it. And I have. I have a job, a space to vent, and most importantly, I have myself. And maybe that’s enough.

The most important factor in my survival was me. I had a part of me that still believed in me. That small but persistent voice inside me refused to give up, whispering that I deserved more, that I could create a different life. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.

So, if you ask me how to survive this? The answer is simple: believe in yourself. Even when no one else does. Because, in the end, you are your own savior. And that’s enough. I am stronger than I thought, cooler than I thought, and a hell of a lot kinder than the people I grew up with. And despite everything, I think I’m doing pretty damn well.