DANNI
I was kicked out of the house at eighteen by my fed-up mother, and surprisingly not because I was a lesbian. No, it was because she was sick of doing motherly things for me like keeping a roof over my head and occasionally food in my mouth, and letting me help carry her up the stairs when she was piss drunk. I knew from childhood that this day was inevitable: there wasn't a moment of my life my mother didn't detest my existence. At best she'd give me the silent treatment, quiet and drunk and fantasizing about that abortion she could've had all those years ago. At worst, I was locked in my room as a burden, told not to come out, not for food or water or to use the toilet.
As a child, I was afraid of my mother and believed all the things she said about me and my uselessness. When I got a little older, I found out about my deadbeat father in America and started to blame him like she'd often do. But by the time I was a teenager, though I did still hate the father I'd never really known, it became explicitly clear that the fault was mostly to be put on her. I found myself wishing time and time again she would've just given me up at birth: a childhood at an orphanage had to be better.
And when I realized it was her fault for treating me like shit, I started fighting back. I was too socially inept to be much of a rebel –I'd drink and smoke on occasion, but mostly everything I tried just made me gag, and with the social factor absent there wasn't much to keep it up for. But any neighbors could tell you about the midnight shouting matches between the two of us, too hard-headed to back down, only coming to a close when we both fell asleep in the living room.
So I saw the disowning coming, and it all came to a final climax for the two of us when I told her I didn't plan on furthering my education after school, even when I'd once had plans to go to uni. She slapped me –the first and last time I'd actually been physically assaulted by my mother— and told me that if I was going to be a deadbeat like my father, then I could go live with him, because she wasn't keeping a parasite in her house. (That's the censored version, of course.)
I stayed with an aunt (who wanted almost as little to do with me as her dear sister) while I looked into finding my father. It was two weeks of hard work, but eventually I did find him: Malcolm McCoy. And it looked like I was moving to New York.