Warning:

This piece contains descriptive discussions of childhood trauma, including references to unhealthy body image descriptions, physical abuse, emotional and mental abuse, substance abuse, thoughts of suicide, and the silencing of individuals seeking help. Reader discretion is advised, particularly for those who may find these topics sensitive or triggering.

My father liked to bait me. On the rare occasions he wanted to have a conversation, it was usually about something obscure or something meant to embarrass me.

When I was in high school, a friend of mine, a boy, would occasionally call the house. Let’s call him R‑Boy. He was actually the secret boyfriend of another friend of mine, who wasn’t allowed to date. R‑Boy would call my house, we’d talk briefly about the classes we shared, mostly Drama, and after a few minutes, I would call my friend to let her know he was home. That was the routine. A literal game of telephone: he would reach out to me, and I would relay the message. Sometimes, since she lived down the block, I’d even stop by to tell her in person. Silly teenage stuff. The things we thought were genius back then make me cringe now.

There was never anything romantic between me and R‑Boy, and the disinterest was mutual. Dating was uneventful for me until my junior year. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I often felt deeply unattractive and unlovable, so much so that I copied other people’s “crushes” just to feel normal.

I was a curvy girl with long hair full of wild curls, hair so thick that most salons couldn’t manage it. I wasn’t even allowed to cut it until middle school. Shyness was easily hidden behind a mess of hair I couldn’t control. My skin was fair, with the usual teenage acne and occasional rosacea flare‑ups. The one feature I loved was my eyes: hazel, but mostly green. Not that many people knew, because I kept them pointed at my sneakers, avoiding eye contact. I had become an expert at making myself small in rooms and crowds, even though I was always the tallest girl in class.

One night, my father saw me on the phone with R‑Boy. R-Boy had called later than usual, and I was already scrubbing the family’s dinner dishes. We didn’t have a working dishwasher, so twice a day I stood at the sink, washing whatever piled up.

I held the phone in the crook of my shoulder while I worked, knowing I still had homework waiting. My father saw me and immediately started yelling across the kitchen, demanding to know why anyone would call “someone like me.”

I froze, as I often did. I debated whether I should hang up, but there was no escape. Our kitchen was small; if three people were in it, it was standing room only. The white‑tiled bar counter left only one narrow way out, and my father stood there blocking it.

The cabinets were brown, at least the ones that still had fronts. In his drunken stupors, my father often took his anger out on objects like drawers and cabinet doors. He never fixed what he broke. You still used a drawer even if the face was hanging off. Thankfully, the counters had been cleared before he started in on me, I would have expected things being thrown or pushed to the floor. Either way, I would be responsible for cleaning up afterward.

My father’s eyes were wide. Alcohol was his usual choice, but I knew he took other substances too, especially steroids. He lived in a mindless loop of his “glory days.” He loved sports and wrestling, and he blamed me for ruining his career. I was the product of an unwanted teen pregnancy, and he never let me forget it. I took my first breaths, and he decided then he would never forgive me. 

Everything about me bothered him.

His shouts continued as he stood there in his stained white tank top. My mother stood between us, her back to me, while he hurled insults indirectly into the room, loud enough for my friend to hear. My mom provided a feeble barrier between us. I know she was trying to protect me but would move if his “roid rage” took over. I knew R‑Boy could hear him because his voice started to falter, his sentences slowing into cautious pauses. My father wanted him to hear what he thought of me.

“Fat!”

I picked up another dish.

“Bitch!”

I reminded R‑Man that the quarterly project was due next week.

“Fucking disgusting!”

I rinsed the dish and set it in the strainer.

After an awkward laugh, I told R‑Boy I had to go, but that I’d see him at school. I hung up quickly. The beep felt final.

I stared into the sink. Only a few dishes were left. My head felt heavy, and I lowered it further. I picked up another dish.

I’m not pretty.
I am fat.
God, I wish more than anything to just…not exist.

My hands kept working without me. Scrub, rinse, place. Scrub, rinse, place.

His words kept coming, but I no longer heard them. I sank into a quiet, detached place. If I kept working, maybe he would leave. If I didn’t fight back, maybe I wouldn’t be hit. Maybe if I weren’t alive, his life would be easier.

That was the last time R‑Boy ever called me.

Yes, my father loved to bait me. On the rare occasions I stood up for myself, I usually paid for it. He had one phrase he obsessed over. After a few beers, legs propped up on the couch, he’d ask:

“Is it better to be feared than respected?”

The smell of alcohol hung in the air with each guttural burp.

“Respected,” I would answer, every time.

He would grin, eyes half‑closed. “Wrong! It’s better to be feared. If you’re feared, they’ll respect you. If you’re feared, you can rule. You have power.”

Unchanged, I’d reply: “You can be feared without being respected. But if you’re respected, it can be with or without fear.”

“You’re wrong,” he would mutter, taking another long drink before getting up to grab another beer.

As an adult, I can say there isn’t a single piece of wisdom from my father that I want to pass down. Instead, I have this:

• I tell my daughters they are beautiful every day. In fact, it’s one of their nicknames.
• We have a rule in our home: home is a safe space. We do not comment negatively on each other’s bodies, or our own.
• We respect one another. Fear is reserved for horror movies (which, ironically, even my pre‑teen daughters still don’t like to watch).

And with that, my dear readers, I ask; Is it better to be feared than respected?

My answer remains, unchanged. 

Unhealed,
Sis

Note to Readers: This blog is a work of creative non-fiction based on the author’s memory. To protect the privacy of individuals, some names, locations, and identifying characteristics have been changed. The views expressed are solely my own. © 2026 Shadows I Survived, All Rights Reserved.