When the person who’s meant to love you most in the world, doesn’t.
I never felt free to express joy — or fall apart. I spent all of those years on edge, afraid of what might happen next.
I spent 17 years in an abusive relationship. Not only do I the physical scars to prove it, I carefully tote a heavy heap of emotional scars. Humiliation, fear, and shame were poured into my heart for years, by a person that claimed to love me — my mother.
I always believed things would get better. I fantasised that I would one day be taken into my abuser’s loving arms and everything would change. I strived to become the best person possible, so the humiliation and rejection would stop.
But happiness between the two of us never lasted long. I would inevitably make a mistake or commit a horrible offence, and once again I was made to feel like the biggest burden, the most dreaded disappointment, and the worst mistake.
When nothing changed, my fantasies went from dreams of love to dreams of escape. Over the years, I made five attempts to escape. I once stayed far away, feeling safer and freer than ever, but my abuser convinced everyone that my only option was to return home. Even then, I was hopeful my abuser needed and missed me. But each time I ran away and was led, forced, or convinced to return home, my abuser regarded me with the same disgust and rejection as always.
The physical harm is never the first thing that comes to mind. That kind of pain doesn’t linger. Having your face pushed into the kitchen floor until you can’t breathe, starting a new job with a black eye, or wearing long sleeves and pants in the summer to hide bruises — are easily endured. But nothing compares to dwelling in endless dread and fear.
It wasn’t until I found the financial means and the inner strength to leave that I learned there is nothing as dismal as never feeling safe or at ease. I never felt free to express joy — or fall apart. I spent all of those years on edge, afraid of what might happen next. Even when things were good (and many survivors will tell you there are good times) I was afraid because, when the good was gone and we were back to the anger, shame and humiliation, the feelings of hopelessness and sorrow were much worse.
Like many survivors, I kept my abuse a secret. Today, very few people know the details of what I endured. Most know my relationship with my mother was not healthy. But because my abuser is still a part of my life (although at a distance), the door is not truly closed. However, there is no more fear, as I have released myself from the hold that she had on my heart and soul.
The balance between protecting myself and accepting that our relationship will continue is something that I struggle with regularly. Some say “the past is the past,” and that I should forget about it. Some remind me that my abuser had a difficult life, and I should approach our relationship with grace. They remind me that abusers are often victims themselves. When my abuser tries to attack me with the same words of humiliation and rejection that were used years ago, I am told that I shouldn’t let it get to me because some people never change.
Sometimes I cannot avoid my abuser; every visit with family, every phone call or any correspondence brings with it a tiny twinge of pain deep within me. Every holiday and significant life event is approached with a bit of apprehension because I know my abuser is going to be there, behaving as though all is well and nothing was ever wrong in the first place. My abuser takes great pride in all of my accomplishments by taking credit for the life I’ve built for myself. My abuser speaks about our relationship as though it were a wonderful and loving experience.
She doesn’t speak about the times when Child Protective Services came. Or when her boyfriend pulled her off of me, after she landed several punches to my head and kicks to my chest as I cowered in the corner of my bedroom. She doesn’t mention the police coming to our home several times and being arrested. She forgets how many times the school counselors intervened. She boasts about my academic performance, but she doesn’t tell anyone that my greatest performance was the daily act I put on — pretending that everything was fine.
Now that Mother’s Day has come and gone, I can breathe a sigh of relief until her birthday draws near and I feel that lingering dread in the pit of my stomach again. The balance of protecting myself and maintaining a respectful relationship at a distance is too complicated to explain. Every now and then I imagine what it would be like to approach Mother’s Day with delight and lovingly choose a gift, make a brunch reservation, or have a wonderful visit with the woman I call mom. But for me, Mother’s Day is not what it should be. My favorite thing about Mother’s Day is when it’s finally over.
I felt my story had to be shared because there are so many people out there with the same secret. I am writing under an anonymous byline to protect myself and the people I love. I can say I’m glad that my mother kept me alive. I’m glad that she made sure I went to school every day. I trust that she fed, bathed, and held me when I was an infant. And I am grateful for the life that I have today and aware that I would not exist without her. She taught me how to love by showing me exactly what love is not; perhaps the best thing about having her for a mother.
The following women have lost their lives in circumstances where they too should have felt safe. Some of these matters are still before the courts, meaning their alleged murderers have not yet been convicted:
A version of this post originally appeared on Ravishly.com
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Top Comments
Are we saying that mothers, therefore women can be brutes, and vile thugs? Perish the thought, women good, men bad. That's what the feminist have taught us!
Yes, I was one of 6 children (the first girl) and for some reason my mother HATED me, never hid her contempt of my existence, openly displayed it to family and friends, on rare occasions I actually mistakenly thought she might be showing me affection because she did really underneath love me, but it was always only short lived and for show, I was beaten up by my mother the last time I remember I was 8years old and I had defended a little girl from my best friend, the mother came to visit because the only name the child knew was mine and afterwards my mother beat me in the corner of the kitchen until my big brother walked in and caught her in the act, she pierced my ears so I wouldn't tell my dad but that only reminded me everyday when I look in the mirror and made me wish her beating had killed me instead, in my mind to have died would have been a release.
Sadly when I was about 2years old I was concussed and placed in traction in hospital, I don't know the extent of my injuries but I have got damage all down the right side of my body. I have had fractures (known as greenstick injuries) which happened before I was 2years old, having an impact on my emotional state through being discovered after xrays had been done on my body now, (at some stage my upper right arm was badly fractured and never medically treated). It's the infant (blocking out painful memories) protection mechanism which has kept me going, but it also torments me not knowing how my discovered injuries had occurred in the first place and why no one protected me.
I tried mediation with my family, (starting with my dad) after my mother decided to disown me and write me off to my family for the third time, because I wouldn't bow down to her and give in to her emotional manipulation and blackmail, I have had no contact with any of them since my dad told the mediator in a letter and phone conversation...It was not anything to do with me, but a problem my mother had put onto me because of an issue and problem she had well before I was even conceived or born.
So from the time of my birth I was regularly criticized, ridiculed, put down, dismissed as a burden, used as my mothers slave, scapegoat and person to blame when things didn't go how she wanted, told NO ONE would put up with me or want me, I would never get married, I was ugly, had a big butt, would never have children and NO ONE would ever love me.
None of my relationships have worked, I seemed to go into relationships/ marriages with abusive men (very much the same or similar personalities to my mother), who believe they owned me, dictated my life or used emotional manipulation on me and I have had abuse counselling, psychological assessments and it all indicates I am a Victim of abuse, which occurred from a very early age and I always felt by existing I deserved it. (the therapists, professionals have all stated my mother is very controlling and the one who should get treatment and be diagnosed).
It's sad, I always see the 'good' in everyone and would never lay a hand on anyone else or cause pain to another living soul, I know how it feels and could think of nothing worse than inflicting that sort of pain on someone, but to this end my mother has once again won and I have nothing at all to do with ANY of my family. I was accused of doing to my beautiful children the very same things my mother had done to me and their abusive father's assisted by my mother took me to court and took them from my life on the pretence, I was guilty of the behaviour of my own mother.