I grew up thinking certain things were okay

and acceptable

and normal within family households.

When I was 5,

I thought it was normal Mommy and Daddy didn't love each other

and that Daddys always slept in cars

or Mommys always cried and went to Grandmas

When I was 6

I thought it was normal for my dad to rip starter learning books from my little hands

out of a fit of rage because I left my toys out

and smash my glass, horse piggy bank with it, 

making me clean it up.

When I was 7,

I thought it was normal to be yelled at for being sad, and to cry

for numerous hours, consistently being told to "shut up"

and having my dad storm in

ripping off my blanket I had over for me as protection

and video taping my most vulnerable moment of fear

with his "Home Video Camera." to save and show me and laugh at in

the following week.

When I was 8, 

I thought it was normal for Mommys to let me choose how I

wanted her to hurt me

would I want a plastic spoon,or a wooden spatula?

would I want purple bruises, or rigid cuts?

When I was 9,

I thought it was normal for Daddys to get so angry

because my door closed quicker than he accepted,

so he would storm upstairs and rip the door off of the metal hinge

and toss it inches from my delicate feet

breaking my mirror, further breaking my own perspective.

When I was 10,

I thought it was normal to be forced to scrub the house from top 

to bottom

from window to window

from inch to inch

from tile to tile

When I was 11,

I thought it was normal for Mommy to

drag me around the house by my hair,

when I wasn't yet finished with my homework 

until I had bald patches within my scalp.

When I was 12,

I thought it was normal to fear my fathers footsteps

of whos sound I memorized

based on the unusual beating of my petrified heart

and unexpected tears soaking my pillow full of nightmares

When I was 13,

I thought it was normal to be kept home from

school to clean

because I was a failure and I messed it up anyways.

When I was 14, 

I thought it was normal to cut my wrists

and dig my nails into my scarring skin

and rip my hair out,

while being told by my aware mother that 

I was being dramatic. 

When I was 15,

I thought it was normal to be told im toxic for this family,

for my family to offer their homes to me in attempt to save any mental stability that may be left

for my father to ground me for weeks because I forgot to do the dishes

and for my parents to call me skanky

and for holes they kicked in my walls

and for suicidal grandfathers

and car crash deaths

and lawsuits

and abusive boyfriends

and losing my house

and losing my best friends

Who were not my best friends.

Mom, 

dad,

you are not my best friends.