My mother's unpredictable anger and violence - a big, strong woman, her riding crop made vicious weals, specially when she used it on us in the bath. Her, and my father's assumption that children were to be used as free labour, rather than having an actual life - mowing half an acre of grass, weeding the vegetables, painting the house, doing all the housework on the weekend so that she could play golf all week. I was cooking the evening meal for the family at age 10.Rages for no apparent reason, horribly abusive treatment of our pets, jealousy of our burgeoning youth and beauty, sneering at our academic prowess and love of reading. Reading our diaries, steaming open our letters, refusal to buy us a second school blouse, so that we had to wear the same one all week, giving my sister and me the dark cold bedroom, despite my annual 6 weeks' illness and time off school every winter, with asthma and bronchitis. Our baby sitter, the teenaged son of a neighbour, sexually abused us. When I told her about it, many years later, her response was "Are you blaming me? What am I supposed to do about it? I was sexually abused too, you know." I, aged 8, walked on a rusty nail, which went right through my foot. I didn't tell my parents, as I had walked, barefoot, in an out-of-bounds area, and my fear of their anger outweighed the incredible pain of the nail through my foot. I never confided in my mother, because she had no empathy. I could go on, but it depresses me.