Well, that describes my childhood. Yes, there were some bad things, physically, particularly during my teenage years. This was not the true horror, however.
What was the true horror? Growing up in a household managed by untreated alanonism:
The claustrophobia; the nowhere-to-hide; the surveillance, supervision, and direction; the impossibly high standards; the squawking rages and sullen cold wars; the impossibility of finding the formula to mollify the Giant Thunderstorm; the gap between the superficial niceness and tidiness and everything-in-its-placeness and the psychological iron maiden, smooth and painted on the outside, spikes all pointing inwards, because nothing real was ever said or even alluded to. Outright lies and banal, sugar-coated family mythology. Inside: desolation. Almost everyone in the family was hospitalised for mental illness at some point. And lurking behind all of this was the spectre of alcoholism and other addictions: the people who fell through the cracks in the pavement and were never seen again. _That_ is what we were guarding ourselves against with our little schemes, like a miniature religion with its sacraments and sacrifices.
The outward violence, drama, physical threat and harm, and other, later developments were actually a relief after all of the above. They were the antidote. At last the outsides matched the insides.
###
Al-Anon does work. The Steps worked. Now, all is well.