The Suburb: Where It All Began

Hammarkullen, on the outskirts of Gothenburg, was my playing field. A suburb built to house dreams of better lives, but one that instead became a place where many lost their way. Everything destructive was present: drugs, violence, and a hopelessness that spread like a virus. I grew up with two older brothers and a single mother who was often absent. Coming home from school wasn’t a safe haven; it was a gamble. My brothers often fought so viciously that they left each other bruised, and when they couldn’t take their anger out on each other, they directed it toward me.

When I reflect, I realize how many of us shared this reality. We sometimes meet, those of us who were kids back then, and the stories flow. Tales of violence, drugs, prostitution, and abuse. Stories that should never be part of any childhood but were our everyday reality. What we shared was dark, leaving scars that we carry to this day.

A World of Violence and Chaos

One of my clearest memories is from a morning when my brother kicked open my door. He ripped off my blanket and started whipping me with a towel, demanding that I make breakfast for him and his friend. Panicked, I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a bread knife to defend myself. When he kept whipping me, I lashed out in self-defense and accidentally stabbed him in the hand. Shaking, I ran out and called my grandmother—the only adult I could trust.

But defending myself came at a cost. The following week, my other brother cut a deep gash into my hand with a stiletto. “This is for stabbing him,” he said coldly. That’s how life was—a chain of violence that never seemed to break.

And then there was my mother’s illness. When she was too weak to defend herself, lying helpless on the sofa, my brothers sometimes turned on her too. On one occasion, I ran to get help and found our priest, who physically threw one of my brothers against the wall to stop him. It was chaos. And as the youngest in the family, I was just trying to survive the storm.

Staying Away from Drugs

My life could have taken a different path. Drugs were everywhere around us, but I stayed away. I saw what they did to people. My brothers and their friends lost themselves in clouds of hashish smoke and destructive behaviors. Sometimes, I was forced into situations no child should face—like the time I was threatened to reveal where the car keys were hidden. My brothers and their friends were partying, and I, just 11 years old, was forced to drink alcohol and had hash smoke blown in my face. The night ended with another destroyed car and an even more destroyed home.

But something inside me resisted. I saw too clearly where drugs led: broken bodies, broken lives. I didn’t want to go that way. Maybe it was my curiosity, my drive to see a world outside the suburb, that saved me. I refused to let the darkness define me, even when it surrounded me.

The Horrors of Summer Life

As if life at home wasn’t enough, I was sent away as a “summer child” to different families. The first place I landed, in Kvänum, was a nightmare. The father in the family beat his children with a leather belt, masturbated openly, and forced me to witness it all. Once, he beheaded chickens in front of me and tossed their bodies aside, where they ran around headless, spraying blood everywhere. I was just six years old. After a week, I demanded to call my mother. She came the same day to take me away, but it wasn’t the last time I was sent off. Each summer was a new chance for the world to show its darkest sides.

We Are Children of Our Time

When I look back on my upbringing, I don’t just see my own struggle, but the struggle of so many others who grew up alongside me. We are children of our time, a generation shaped by violence, addiction, and absent parents. Even though we took different paths in life, we share a bond that never truly fades. When we meet today, on those rare occasions, the stories resurface. Tales of assault, drugs, and lost opportunities. We remember, we share, and we understand that what we survived was nothing a child should ever endure.

Being Shaped by Trauma

My upbringing left its marks—that much is undeniable. But I’ve also realized that trauma doesn’t just destroy—it shapes. It made me fearless, strong, and determined. I’ve learned to face life head-on, refusing to let difficulties win. The scars, both visible and invisible, are a part of me. They’re proof that I survived.

But that doesn’t mean the pain isn’t there. Only now, after all these years, am I beginning to understand how deeply my upbringing has affected me. I’ve suppressed the memories for decades, but they linger, shaping me still.

When Is It Okay to Complain?

So, when is it okay to complain about your upbringing? Maybe it’s not about complaining but about giving your story a place. Acknowledging what happened, understanding how it shaped you, and using it to help others. Those of us who survived have a story to tell, and in that story lies strength. It shows that even in the darkness, there can be light.

We are children of our time. And we are not just our scars—we are also our dreams, our strength, and our ability to change. I carry my story with me, but I don’t let it define me. Instead, I use it to understand myself, to forgive, and to create something better. Despite everything I’ve been through, a part of me still believes in life. And maybe that is the greatest strength of all.

I´m Good!

By Chris.... (About Chris...)

When Is It Okay to Complain About Your Childhood?

I’ve learned to tackle challenges head-on. I am fearless, curious, and still driven to create and change. But beneath the strength lies a legacy of pain, and maybe it’s time to put words to it. In telling my story, there is understanding—and perhaps even reconciliation.