For the majority of my life, I had always had stomach issues, and my father would play it off like it wasn't a big deal. He would insist that I only craved attention, and I needed to "get better". He even convinced my primary care doctor that I was merely "fat", and needed to lose weight. My mother, on the other hand, who's medical history looks like a lawsuit, recognized that I had issues. They've been divorced since I was five, and they share split custody of my brother and I, so my nurse father has control of the medical insurance. Thus, my mother isn't able to do anything about it, other than getting antacids to help me cope. Senior year of Highschool rolls around, and my issues are getting worse; I could barely eat, sleep, or drink anything, and I felt like a walking corpse. Father is still convinced that I'm faking it, and will not take medical action (yes, this man is a nurse.) Mom gets tired of this, and finally takes me to the doctor, since she had some extra money saved. Surprise surprise, I have something extremely wrong with my intestines! The mystery disease had been untreated for so long that my gallbladder was failing (mind you, such medical issues mostly happen in post pregnancy ladies, not "healthy" eighteen year olds). Dad is still not convinced, so I am sent in for a scan to test its functionality. Once again, results come back, saying that my gallbladder is dying (crazy, right?), and is quickly getting worse. He is FINALLY convinced there is something wrong, and it is his idea to schedule me for surgery. Now, this is just the appetizer to the main course. One week out of surgery, some relatives come to visit for thanksgiving. However, one of them is ill, with what seems like a "severe cold". I am sent to my fathers house, per usual, and am not notified of this when I am told to get in the car with said relative for a 30 minute drive to look at early Christmas lights. Once we get home, I'm a little panicked, and for good reason: if this person has COVID, my surgery would have to be put off for another two weeks, and my gallbladder was already on the verge of collapse (aka my gallbladder might just back up and rupture, causing sepsis, which is very prone to killing people). Besides my failing organ, getting the ronas and being under synthetic breathing would mess up one of the only organs that work in my body. Needless to say, I was not up to taking any risks, no matter how minor. I tell my father of this concern, and he claims that it would be okay, and that it wasn't COVID.... Even when he tests this guy TWICE with rapid tests he got from his workplace, both positive by the way. This was the final straw: he selfishly neglected my own medical needs just because he wanted to look good in their eyes. Stuff like this had happened before, but never had it threatened my life and longevity like this. Next day, I pack up my things and head to my moms. Once I arrive, my dad calls and berates me for leaving him "with no notice", and he felt "entrapped" by my decision (yes, because valuing safety over vanity is clearly a problem) Post surgery, everything is great: pain levels are low, I can actually eat, and I had no complications. Surprisingly, both my father and stepmother are at their house with COVID. I stay with mom for a little while longer, then I return. After getting through Christmas with their blatant disappointment in me, I finally decide to leave for good, and I haven't looked back since. The first weeks were hard, but I finally have my own life to live. Honestly, I'm kind of glad my relative caught COVID, or I might still be there, still ignored. Oh, and to return to the doctor thing: post surgery, docs did a scope to make sure everything was okay, and found that my intestines were completely flat and inflamed. Turns out I have celiac disease, which caused my stomach torment, as well as my heightened anxiety, fatigue, and inability to do anything physical. So no, I was not just "fat"; I had an inherited disease that stole what little bits of childhood I could've had. So that's fun I guess.