I thought my parent was good until I realized they tried to poison me

I used to believe my parent was a good person. That belief lasted until I was eight or nine years old, when the illusion finally shattered. I remember the moment clearly: I realized that the person who was supposed to protect me was actually the source of my terror.

The abuse started when I was five. It wasn't just verbal; it was physical. I learned to walk on eggshells, to anticipate the next blow before it happened. But the most terrifying part wasn't the violence itself; it was the confusion. My parent would use gaslighting to make me doubt my own reality, to make me believe that I deserved the punishment.

I realized that blood does not make someone family in the heart. I chose to cut the ties that were killing me, not out of hate, but out of a desperate need to survive.

One of the first signs of the extreme control was the isolation. I was forbidden from seeing my friends. My world shrank to the size of my home, and my parent was the only gatekeeper. When I tried to reach out, the consequences were severe. I remember being sent to sleep outside, on the terrace, as a punishment. The cold, the darkness, the feeling of abandonment—it was a lesson in how easily I could be discarded.

By the time I was thirteen, the situation had become untenable. I was placed in a foster home, where I stayed until I was fifteen. It was the first time I had a safe space, but the shadow of my parent followed me. Even in that separation, the control didn't end. They demanded monthly phone calls, using guilt to force me to communicate. I refused to answer. I knew that every call was a trap, a way to pull me back into the web.

The turning point came when I was seventeen. I started meeting friends who were kind, who didn't try to control me. I discovered that there were parents who were supportive, who didn't treat their children like enemies. These friends and their families became my lifeline. They showed me what a healthy relationship looked like, and it made the toxicity at home even more glaring.

But the abuse escalated. I remember working at the CAF, a government agency. My parent didn't respect my boundaries or my work. They harassed me there, following me in the street, showing up at my workplace. They threatened to file a lawsuit against me, using the legal system as a weapon to intimidate me. They wanted to make sure I knew that no matter where I went, they could find me.

The most chilling incident happened when I was still living at home. My parent tried to poison me. They put something in my cake and in my water. I don't know exactly what it was, but the intent was clear: to harm me. That was the moment I knew I had to leave. There was no going back. The person who was supposed to love me was trying to kill me.

I moved from the north of France to the south, finding an apartment in Cap d'Agde. It was a fresh start, a place where I could breathe. But the control didn't stop. My parent still tried to maintain their hold, leaving occasional voicemails, trying to guilt me into returning. I felt a physical aversion to the idea of going back. My body rejected the thought of being near them.

I realized that I didn't regret the possibility of their death. That thought didn't bring me guilt; it brought me relief. I understood that my organism was rejecting the idea of calling them. I had to cut the ties completely. I decided to "dynamite" the bridges with my family. It wasn't an easy decision, but it was necessary.

Now, I consider my parent to be family by blood, but not by heart. I have chosen a life of quality and excellence, far away from the toxicity. Leaving was an act of self-love. I had to destroy the illusion that they were good to save myself. I am no longer the child who slept on the terrace. I am the adult who chose to survive.

Looking back, I wish someone had told me that blood doesn't make someone family in the heart. I wish I had known earlier that I didn't have to accept the abuse just because it came from a parent. I learned that leaving is not an act of betrayal; it is an act of preservation. I am finally free, and I will never go back.