mother
The ball
Yesterday was interesting.
I was planning to come home after work and start writing my essay for grad school. While I was working, I hit my head on a display. I ended up with a tremendous headache and I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on writing anything. I knew if I went home, I’d go to sleep and that wasn’t good, either.
So after work, I decided to go to the toy store. I told the littles inside that they can pick out something small to play with. I quickly realized that it was just like being in a toy store with children. Someone was very excited and wanted just about everything we saw. I had to explain a few times that we could only get one thing, and it couldn’t be the giant stuffed dinosaur that was on display.
After 20 minutes or so, I realized we were never going to settle on one toy. I compromised by saying they could each pick out a smaller stuffed animal. After another 10 minutes, we ended up with a pink elephant, a troll (not sure who wanted that – it’s not cute), and Sully from Monsters, Inc. I also picked up something for a friend and ended up walking out of the store with a huge bag of stuffed animals. Everyone seemed happy, so it was worth it.
I came home, changed my bedding, and lined up the new toys on the bed. Someone didn’t like the arrangement and I had to switch things around a few times, but now there’s a menagerie of stuffed toys across my bed. Everyone seemed happy.
Later that night, as I was preparing myself to go to sleep, I started getting flashes of a memory. I had one of those cheap, colorful inflated balls that you used to see everywhere. My mother took the ball from me and told me I didn’t deserve it. Then she took a knife and stuck it right through the ball, and pushed all of the air out of it until there was no air left.
The memory just kept replaying in my head over and over. I don’t even know why it came up. I ended laying in bed for hours because I couldn’t get the images out of my head. I hadn’t remembered my mother doing this before, though I have no doubt that it happened. When she wasn’t destroying my soul, my mother was destroying everything around me.
I needed a hero
Sometimes social media leads me to feel things I would rather not feel. For this reason, I try to avoid social media around holidays like Mother’s Day and Father’s Day because I know that I’m going to see things that will make me angry or upset. Still, there are posts about great mothers and fathers all year round, and I can’t avoid social media forever.
I don’t take most posts personally. I do when someone says something like you must honor your mother because she’s the only one you have. Unfortunately, I’ve seen my fair share of these posts and experienced many people carrying this belief in real life. I used to shut my mouth and quietly seethe on the inside. Then I started answering back. No, mothers need to earn honor and respect. No, being a mother doesn’t automatically make you a good person. It still amazes me how unreceptive people are to the reality that mothers are not all good. Many people shut me down. Most just ignored me. I hope that I got through to at least one person. If so, my battle was worth it. It’s difficult to fight against something that is still reinforced so strongly in society.
The less direct posts about parents just make me sad. They are a reminder of what I missed throughout childhood. I came across this post on my Instagram last week and had to stop myself from getting emotional.
I needed a super hero. So many times as a child, I wished that Superman would come and take me away from my mother. My mom was never my super hero. She was the villain I needed to be protected from. She was the evil that needed to be fought against. She should’ve been my hero, but she wasn’t. I never had the chance to feel safe and protected. Why couldn’t she just be my super hero? Why couldn’t my father? Why did my world have to be full of villains?
I feel like I’m constantly going to be grieving the loss of the family I never had. There are always going to be reminders of it: any time I see a parent hugging their child, any post on social media glorifying a mother or father, each holiday I spend without a family. There will always be that piece of me missing, my point of origin. Sure, I can build my own family, but it will never be the same as what I should have had from the beginning.
Why didn’t she just kill me?
Today was another long therapy session. I really just wanted a normal session. I think that’s what I want every time, and it rarely works out that way.
I mentioned the incident that occurred a few nights earlier. My therapist asked me what happened and I explained in detail. I stared at the floor as I told her everything, still ashamed of my reaction that night. Just talking about it was difficult for me. This isn’t the first difficult situation I’ve been in at home. It’s been a concern for my therapist, but I keep insisting that I can make it through.
This was by far the worst yet in terms of the after effects. I was a mess for days. My therapist asked me whose fault I thought it was. I told her it was my fault. I left home. I came here. I moved into this house. Now I have to deal with it. My issues are not her fault. Everything is my fault.
I was struggling to stay present and my struggle was apparent, because my therapist said she could see that it was difficult for me to stay present and suggested we color some coloring pages. I obliged, of course. I noticed myself getting frustrated more than usual over the simple act of coloring. I couldn’t find the right color, so I’d sit there and stare at the box of crayons agonizing over what color to pick as if it were the most important decision of my day. Maybe I just didn’t want to think about anything else. I don’t know.
We started talking about my financial difficulties, and about getting into grad school to help ease the burden. Then she looked up the application on her computer and all of the requirements I needed: the four-question essay, the letters of recommendation, the GRE (which I never took). Nothing is overly complicated but I just don’t have the mental energy to deal with it right now. I don’t have much time (less than 6 weeks) before the application must be completed. My therapist asked if I’d want to take session time to go through some of the things and she can help me with getting everything done. I told her I didn’t know. I was really thinking that if I needed help just getting the application done, I probably don’t belong in grad school. Conflicting.
I was getting frustrated so I tried to change the subject. I talked about a recent conversation with someone close to me, and how it changed how it made me feel towards them. My therapist delved into it more, and started asking why I felt the way I did. I told her I didn’t have much of a choice; I need this person because I don’t have anyone else. I left my family. I’m alone now. Then my therapist tried to remind me that I left my abusive family, the people who hurt me for so long. I told her it wasn’t that bad. I told her I could have just been stronger. I abandoned them.
I started to feel anger building up inside of me. I stopped coloring, clenched my fists so tightly that my nails dug into my skin, and stared at the floor, trying not to think about anything. I didn’t want to feel anything. Go away, feelings.
My therapist came over to sit next to me and asked me what I was feeling. I told her I was angry. Then she asked who I was angry with. I told her I was angry at myself. It’s a common theme for me. I turn my feelings inward. She told me that it was okay to be angry at the people who deserve it. I told her it’s not okay to be angry. She asked why. I told her that anger hurts people. In my mind, I associate anger with abuse. I don’t want to be angry with anyone because I don’t want to end up hurting them. I don’t want to turn into my mother. She told me that anger is a perfectly acceptable feeling; it didn’t mean that I was going to hurt someone, and it didn’t mean that feeling wasn’t right. She told me I have reason to be angry. I can still be angry at the people in my life who failed to protect me, even though they may have apologized for their wrongs. I can be angry at my family, at my father and mother. She tried to tell me there was nothing wrong with feeling angry.
By this time, the anger was building up even more. My hands were still clenched and shaking. My therapist insisted on holding my hand. I told her I didn’t want to hurt her. She said it was okay, she can handle it…to let her take on some of my anger. I just wanted to punch something. I needed a release. I don’t want to feel anger. I don’t want to feel anger towards my mother. But I felt some of my anger being redirected towards her and I couldn’t take it back. Then I said it. The question that has plagued me for years.
“Why didn’t she just kill me?”
“Your mother?” She asked, though it really needed no clarification.
I told her I didn’t understand why anyone would make someone suffer like that for so long. Why didn’t my mother just kill me? She wouldn’t have had to put any more effort into torturing me. It would have been easier for us both. I wouldn’t have to be suffering now. For so many birthdays, I wished for death. But not for her death, for my own. I was never so concerned with anger towards her as I was in ending my suffering.
I felt myself starting to cry, so I turned away until I could push my feelings back down. This is why I didn’t want to feel anger towards her. Once you open that box, it’s hard to close it back up. I don’t want to unleash all of that anger. I don’t have time to unleash all of that anger. I don’t even understand my anger. It goes against everything people are supposed to feel. People are supposed to feel grateful to their parents for giving them life. So why am I feeling anger that my mother chose to bring me into this world? My feelings don’t compute. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel. Feeling angry with her only makes me feel worse about myself.
I hate feelings.
I hate her.
I hate me.
She always knows
Today’s therapy session included quite a bit of discussion about my mother. Fortunately, I was able to stay present through the entire session. Progress.
My therapist asked if I would have ever started this blog while I was still living with my family. I quickly answered no. The risk was too great for my mother finding out, and when she did find out, I would have had nowhere to hide. I knew there was spyware on my computer; that had been an ongoing practice for a long time. I learned to do most things on my phone so she wouldn’t be able to trace anything.
Then mentioning the phone led me to bring up the first time I tried to have my own phone. I was in my 20s, and didn’t want my mother knowing everything I had done and everyone I had contacted on my phone and going through interrogations about it, so I bought a cheap Tracfone and did the majority of my texting and calling on that phone. I thought I hid it well; I actually bought a phone small enough that I could hide it behind my other phone and have them both in one holster case. But then one day, I went with my brother to pick up food after work and he said “we know you have another phone; we found the empty package in your room.” My heart started racing, because I knew this meant trouble. My mother was not going to be happy. I was in for it. What is even more sad is that I became angry with myself for not hiding the package well enough. It was wrapped inside of plastic bags, then put inside of a book bag underneath some other things, which means my mother had to go through several obstacles just to find that empty phone package.
My therapist seemed surprised at first that my mother would go to such lengths. But this was a regular part of my existence. She would inspect my room and my things regularly. My brother participated right alongside her, as if he were her sidekick. I always knew when they were in my room because they could never put anything back right, and it annoyed me just as much as them going through my things. My desk, drawers, bags, and my nightstand. They would even go through the clothes in my dresser, and my laundry hamper; even my trash was inspected. I tried to hide things wherever I could. I’d cut sections out of books to hide cash in. I’d stuff things inside of pillows. I had to get creative. When I wanted to throw something away and needed to avoid interrogation, I’d hide it in my purse and bring it to work to throw away there. It was an exhausting way to live. It was, almost literally, a home prison.
After I disclosed some of my mother’s controlling ways, my therapist seemed to understand where my fears of my mother finding things out came from. My therapist told me that a few of my parts have this intense fear of mother finding out that they’ve talked or that they’ve done something, and now she sees exactly where that stems from. My mother has been that way for as long as I can remember. As an adult, obviously I knew how she found everything out because I knew more and was aware of her ways. As a child, I believed she had some magical power that caused her to know everything I said or did. It’s why I was so fearful. I’m guessing that’s why my parts are fearful, too.
My therapist asked if I see my mother’s seeming ability to know everything differently now than I did as a child. Obviously I don’t think she has magical powers anymore. Looking back, I have to wonder if she just got lucky those times she did find things out. There were so many times she falsely accused me of talking or of doing something that I never actually did. Did she just consistently make accusations and when they happened to be true, they stuck with me? I’ll probably never have a real answer to that question. I’m forever trying to rationalize the irrational.
She’s sick…
Something has been bothering me for a while now, and it has come up quite a few times in the last week or so.
Whenever some people talk about my mother, they feel the need to mention “she’s sick” or “she’s mentally ill.” Well, first of all, do we really know that for sure? Has she been diagnosed? No. She hasn’t. I’m not saying that she isn’t, I just don’t see the point in jumping to that assumption, as if it was supposed to be comforting to me or something. My roommate mentioned it the other night when I was having my breakdown. “Your mother is sick, you know that right?” So what? So what if she’s sick? Is that supposed to mean something? I don’t get it.
My therapist also brought up the likelihood of my parents being mentally ill. Again…so what? Is that supposed to negate all of the shit they put me through, my mother especially? Regardless of mental illness, my mother knew right from wrong. She knew what she did wasn’t right. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have tried so hard to hide it. She wouldn’t have lied about it. You don’t cover up something unless you know you’ve done wrong. So what difference does being mentally ill make? I’m mentally ill. I’d like to think I would never physically, sexually, or emotionally abuse another human being, especially an innocent child. My illness doesn’t change that.
Being sick or mentally ill is not an excuse for what my family did. Yet every time someone says something like that, it seems that they are trying to find an excuse for what happened to me. There is no excuse. There is no reason. There is no logic. There is no explanation.
If I turned around and did some horrible shit to my parents, I bet I wouldn’t be hearing “she’s sick” or “she’s mentally ill.” But that’s okay, because I wouldn’t be acting out because of any illness. I’d be acting on the pure hatred and evil that lives inside me. And I’ll readily admit that. My illness doesn’t control me. Her illness (if one exists) didn’t control her. She made those choices on her own.
Daughter’s Day
Apparently it is National Daughter’s Day, or that’s what the internet seems to believe. My Facebook has been inundated the last two days with pictures and posts from mothers honoring and saying beautiful things about their daughters. I started to read some of the posts. Then it got to be too much and I had to stop. I’ll never have one of those posts from my mother. I’ll never be honored on Daughter’s Day. I am no longer a daughter. My mother should have lost that right the first day she laid her hands on me, but she didn’t. Instead, she lost the privilege to be my mother the day I walked out on her 11 weeks ago.
I went to the movies earlier today to try to clear my mind. I thought seeing a kid’s movie would be a safe bet. I was wrong. Instead, I found myself crying five minutes into the start of the movie. Why? The movie began with the father standing by as his daughter got married. I began to think of my own future wedding. And that brought up a whole stream of thoughts about my future.
My father won’t be walking me down the aisle to give me away when I get married. He won’t be dancing with me at my reception. There will be no mother-of-the-bride at my wedding, no heart-to-heart conversation between mother and daughter before I take the long walk down the aisle to married life. There will be no family to share in my happiness and excitement that day. My side of the room will be empty. I’m no longer a daughter. I’m alone.
When I walk down the aisle at graduation in a couple of months to officially receive my degree, there will be no one there to cheer me on. My father won’t be there recording the moment I shake the dean’s hand. My mother won’t be applauding me after I make my speech. There won’t be anyone in the audience for me; no one will be there to take my picture. I’m no longer a daughter. I’m alone.
When I have my first child, my mother won’t be there to help me get through those tough first weeks. I won’t have my mother to turn to for help when I am feeling overwhelmed or have a question I am too embarrassed to ask anyone else. My mother and father will never know the joy of holding their grandchild in their arms and seeing their grandchild’s beautiful smile. I’ll never be able to share each milestone with any of my family. My family will never be there to celebrate each birthday. I’m no longer a daughter. I’m alone.
When I become successful, my mother and father won’t be there by my side to congratulate me. I won’t be telling the world how I couldn’t do it without my parents’ support and guidance. I won’t be thanking them or acknowledging their presence in my life. They won’t be allowed to say “that’s my girl” or pat themselves on the back for a job well done. Everything I have become and will become in the future is no thanks to them. They deserve no recognition or honor. They shattered me into a million pieces and took away the glue. I’m no longer a daughter. I’m alone.
As my children grow older and ask questions about their family, I’ll have nothing to offer them. I have no photographs. I have no happy memories, no stories to pass down to them. My children will never get to know what it’s like to be spoiled by grandma and grandpa. They will never even know that my mother and father exist. All that my children will be left with is a shell of a mother. That half of the family tree will always be empty for them. They will be no one’s grandchildren. They’ll be alone.
When my mother and father pass away, there will be no tears or sadness from me. I won’t be writing their obituaries or delivering any eulogies. I won’t be attending their funerals. I won’t be there as they are lowered into the ground, buried and left to rot. I will never visit their graves, bring them flowers, or say any prayers for them. I’m no longer their daughter. They are alone.
Because of me, everyone is alone.
After nine weeks, she throws away the keys.
I’ve been free for nine weeks now.
I wish I could say my life is so much easier. While I am physically out of prison, emotionally, my mind is in a prison of its own. It’s a lot harder to escape that prison. I can’t just walk away like I did before. It doesn’t work that way. My mind still believes I am in danger. My mind still believes I am going to be hurt. It is something I can only hope will heal with time.
I threw out the keys to my old house today. I don’t even know why I had been holding on to them all this time. I took them out of my nightstand, held on to them for a few minutes, and then tossed them in the trash. I don’t need them anymore. I won’t ever be going back. I would rather die before subjecting myself to that ever again.
I couldn’t help but think how something as small as a set of keys helped my mother continue her control over me for years. I wasn’t even allowed to have any keys to the house until I was in my 20s. Even then, I never had every key. She’d always make up some nonsense excuse as to why I couldn’t have every key. I knew the real reason. If I didn’t have every key, that meant I couldn’t sneak out and get back in without her knowing. It was her way of keeping me contained. And it worked. I never left. The fear of her finding out was too real. It also didn’t help that she took up residence five feet away from the door…literally, she slept just feet away from the door. No one was ever getting past her unnoticed.
A mail key was another thing I never had the privilege of having. I was never given a key. I was never allowed to check the mail. The mail had to be inspected by her first. Oftentimes, I would be questioned about mail she deemed “suspicious” (from out-of-state, from a name she didn’t know, hand-written addresses, etc.). A friend from a few states away had mailed me something a few years ago, and my mother interrogated me about it. “Who is this person? When did you meet her? What does she do? What does she know about us? What did she send you? Why?” The questions seemed like they never ended. The interrogations would last over a span of several days. Eventually I got smart and had “suspicious” mail sent to my job instead. I could usually intercept it there and avoid any issues altogether. But even that was a hassle. I had to turn down a lot of opportunities for mail because I didn’t want to risk my mother finding out about it.
My mother didn’t want me sending out mail, either. If I wanted something mailed, I had to go through questioning first. I used to find ways to sneak around her. I remember in 8th grade, I asked a classmate to bring me a stamp so I could mail a letter to someone. I ran to the mailbox after school let out and dropped it in before anyone noticed. My plan failed though, because I didn’t think the person would write back to me. Sure enough, my mother opened that “suspicious” mail and all hell broke loose. I broke one of her major rules of talking outside of the family. I got the shit beaten out of me for days. I never had the desire to write another letter again. I should have known better. She always finds out.
It’s weird how I never really thought about all of this until today when I picked up those keys. For the longest time, it was just a part of my normal. I never really thought about how messed up shit really was. I wonder what drove me to break the rules when I was younger. There was so much fear there, and for good reason, yet a part of me still wanted a taste of freedom and went for it. I know I had that desire to break free later in life, but now I can relate some parts of my earlier life to having that same desire. I just wish it didn’t end up causing me more pain.
Letter to a friend
I recently talked about an issue I was having with a friend who was (quite literally, as my therapist put it) playing devil’s advocate with my mother. I decided to write her a letter, since I couldn’t seem to find the words when texting her or talking with her on the phone. I mentioned the letter to my therapist in our usual e-mail updates this past weekend and she told me I could bring the letter with me to our session today if I hadn’t already sent it. So I did.
The letter:
(Name),
Hello. I hope you are doing well. You haven’t really text or spoke to me much and I’m not sure if it’s because you’re busy or because of the things I said about my parents a couple of weeks ago.
I need you to know that what my mother tells you is not the truth. It never has been; it never will be. She is using you to get to me. She is a dangerous person. Please be aware of that if you choose to continue to engage with her.
I spent 29 years of my life trapped in a family that treated me in ways no person should ever be treated. It took me years to gather the courage, the financial resources, and the strength to leave that prison. I have escaped. When you escape from a burning building, you don’t go back in; you’ll get burned. If I go back home, I’m going to be hurt again. I don’t deserve it.
I’m building a new life for myself now. I’m no longer under my mother’s control. I don’t have to worry about being attacked in my own home. I am free. I still live in fear, but hopefully that will change one day.
I need a lot of therapy and a lot of time to undo the damage that my family has done. Talking to them, seeing them, or visiting them will only set my recovery back. I don’t owe my family anything. They are dead to me. In fact, the only time I want to hear about them is when they die, so I can breathe a sigh of relief.
I just need you to understand why cutting my family out of my life is what’s best for me. I need you to support my decision and stop advocating for my mother. It hurts me when you do that because I feel like you are on her side. I can’t involve myself with anyone who supports her. I need you to feel what is in my heart.
I didn’t want to read it out loud. I told my therapist it was horrible. She asked me why it was horrible. I told her “It just is.” Then I took the letter from my bag and handed it to her. She took her time and read it through. She told me the letter wasn’t horrible at all. She said it was honest and real and everything I needed to say to her. She even got goosebumps reading one part of it. I still insisted that it was horrible.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because everything I do is horrible.”
It was such a raw response from me. I didn’t even think about it. I still have it programmed in my head that everything I do ends up being wrong. Sometimes I am able to override the programming; most times, I’m just too exhausted to bother and let the original programming run its course. It’s also extremely unnatural for me to assert my needs in any way, and this letter was doing that. I’ve lived my life for the last 29 years believing my needs were unimportant, because even my most basic needs were neglected. It’s difficult for me. People don’t realize just how hard it is to reprogram yourself when you’ve lived a certain way for so long.
We talked about what would happen once I sent the letter. I said I didn’t think it would matter; I still don’t think my friend would understand. I’m not emotionally ready to handle that reality yet. I’m not ready to grieve another loss. This woman was like a mother to me. I told my therapist I couldn’t go through losing a mother again. I already lost my real one (who was never there to begin with), and here I am about to lose the one I replaced her with. What is so wrong with me that I can’t even have a mother to love me?
My therapist and I both agreed that I wasn’t ready to send the letter yet. I don’t know when I’ll be ready. It’s going to have to be soon, because I know the issue is going to come up again. I can’t keep putting out fires. It’s exhausting. I’m not a firefighter. I’m just a girl trying to get by.
How my mother portrays “reality” versus actual reality
Sunday afternoon, I received a text message from a friend back from my old life (one of only two that I remain in contact with). At the end of the text, she asked me if I had called my father. Apparently my mother had told my friend how my father was oh so worried about me, oh so concerned, and how he was counting the weeks and worried that I wasn’t going to be coming back home.
There were so many things wrong with this situation. In fact, let me use bullet points.
- Why is my mother mentioning my father’s worry and concern and not hers? Answer: Because my mother knows that I know she doesn’t have feelings.
- If my father was so worried and concerned, wouldn’t he have reached out? Answer: He has my cell phone number. I haven’t blocked him. I have not once received one phone call or one text message from him in the six weeks I’ve been gone.
- Why is my mother telling this person this? Answer: Because this is the one person she has continued to manipulate, despite my efforts to show this person my mother’s true colors. My mother also more than likely knows that this person keeps in contact with me, and knows it’s her only way to get through to me to try to manipulate me still. Even a distance away, this woman will still try to fuck with my life. She knows what she is doing. She has been doing this for 29 years of my life. She lives and breathes manipulation likes it’s necessary for survival. My friend is just an unfortunate pawn in my mother’s game.
I immediately became overwhelmed with feelings upon reading the text. I responded that my father had my number and had not made an effort to reach out, so I doubt that there was any genuine concern for me. I continued to tell her that I do not trust anyone in my family, that they haven’t cared about me for the last 29 years so why would they start now? Her response showed me that she didn’t understand where I was coming from at all. My heart sank. I responded “they can find someone else to abuse” and I just stopped responding after that. Now I’m left questioning whether the relationship is worth fighting for. As much as I love her, she doesn’t see my mother for the monster she really is; she still falls for my mother’s manipulation. I can’t risk all the progress I’ve made on a relationship that may put that in jeopardy.
It’s not like I blame my friend. My mother is great at portraying her own version of reality versus what reality actually is. To be clear, for my own sanity, I decided to verify with someone who had some inner knowledge if my father was indeed concerned or worried about me. My suspicions of a complete lack of concern were confirmed. The only thing my father is worried about is getting rid of my stuff. So much concern, right? It doesn’t sound at all like the father my mother was portraying in her story to my friend. Maybe she just forgot to leave out a few (thousand) details.
My mother always has a story for everything. When outsiders would question why I seemed so distant and unresponsive, my mother would tell them “oh, she’s just sensitive” or “fragile.” The reality: I was a broken child, trained not to speak to outsiders and living in fear of nearly everyone and everything. When doctors questioned why I had so many UTIs, she ‘d make up these elaborate stories. The reality: things were in my vagina that should not have been there. To add on to that, she’d also often switch doctors, to which she’d blame on insurance problems, yet I was the only one who had to change doctors so much. In my adulthood, my mother would tell people I was Bipolar and had a lying disorder. The reality: I was struggling with PTSD and beginning to open up about the CSA and MDSA, and she felt threatened. By saying that I had a lying disorder, she protected herself by creating a veil of doubt over anything I said.
The scariest part is that she has always been so convincing. Sometimes I wonder if she believes her stories are real. She’s that good. I can see why so many fall for her lies. I think many in my own family have. It’s unfortunate, but what can I do? I guess the most important thing is that I know what reality REALLY is, and it’s NOT her reality.
Life Without Hurt 