Growing up in an emotionally explosive home hollows you out over time. I was hungry late this afternoon and wanted to boil a couple of eggs. Because the kitchen counter was cluttered with dirty utensils, I set the portable induction plate on the floor, cooked quietly, and wiped down the tiles spotless afterward. My mother walked in, saw the boiled eggs, and immediately began a vicious barrage of verbal abuse. She stood in the doorway hurling every curse imaginable, telling me I'd amount to nothing and wandering the streets like a stray dog. I swallowed it and kept silent. Then, out of nowhere, she grabbed the warm frying pan and hurled it clean out the balcony window, followed by sweeping spices and canisters off the shelves onto the floor in an uncontrollable rage. Something inside my chest finally snapped after twenty years of absorbing abuse. I walked up to the induction cooktop on the floor and kicked it with all my force, smashing the ceramic glass to pieces. I know violence solves nothing, but in that split second, the silence that fell over the house was deafening. How do you heal when the place that's supposed to be your sanctuary is the source of all your trauma?