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Trigger Warning: Child Abuse
I frequently heard how fortunate I was to have a family with both parents. My mother’s childhood was marred by her parents’ divorce, affecting her deeply throughout her life. Many of my friends came from single-parent or blended households and envied the seemingly “normal” structure of my family.
“You’re so lucky. I would have given anything for my parents to stay together.”
“I can’t stand seeing my dad only on weekends. You’re fortunate yours is always around.”
“I wish my parents loved each other like your mom and dad do. You’re so lucky.”
But if I was so lucky, why was I so profoundly unhappy?
People only witnessed what we chose to reveal. In my mother’s case, she only acknowledged what fit her narrative. She believed that having two parents meant she wouldn’t repeat her own parents’ mistakes. Yet, history tragically repeated itself.
My parents were caught in a toxic spiral. Both had backgrounds filled with abuse, which they often used to justify their harmful behaviors. They felt entitled to make others suffer because they had endured hardship themselves, including their children.
On the surface, we appeared to be a loving family. My parents were outgoing and sociable, leading others to believe this equated to happiness.
My father was a natural entertainer, always cracking jokes and spreading joy. My friends adored him, often seeing him as the ideal dad since many lacked fathers or had distant ones. My mother was charming and emotionally expressive, showering others with compliments and attention. She even encouraged my friends to call her “Mom.”
However, this warm treatment didn’t extend to my sister and me. My father barely engaged with me, viewing me as too quiet and sensitive. He preferred my younger sister, who was more of a tomboy. I often questioned if he was truly my father, given his indifference towards me compared to my sister. But our similar appearances made it undeniable: my actual dad simply didn’t favor me.
My mother treated me more like a friend or therapist. Her nurturing side was a facade; I ended up being her emotional caretaker. I managed her feelings, dealt with her issues, and faced punishment if I failed. She would erupt in anger for trivial reasons, making me fear her. Cruel remarks about my personality and looks were common, and she resented motherhood, often lamenting how her dreams were sacrificed by having children. She would even threaten to leave when I returned from school.
I never sought protection from my father; I knew I didn’t matter to him.
Despite having my basic needs met, I felt a deep sense of neglect. Guilt consumed me, as I had been told how blessed I was to have such a wonderful family. My parents were liked by others, leading me to believe something must be wrong with me. I wasn’t good enough, which is why they treated outsiders better than me. I tried harder, but it was always inadequate.
As an adult, I understand now that my feelings of neglect stemmed from emotional abandonment. My parents were masters at projecting an image of a perfect family. Their neglect was so profound that they allowed all three of us to be victimized by extended family members. Though they didn’t grasp the depth of the abuse, they were aware enough to intervene. Yet, their mindset of “I’ve suffered enough” clouded their judgment, leaving their children to endure unnecessary pain.
Both parents likely vowed to do better. My father didn’t want to mirror his own father’s lack of love, and my mother aimed to avoid a broken marriage like her own. However, she resented my father and relied on me for emotional support, just as her mother had done with her.
Instead of working to break the cycle, they focused on crafting the illusion of a perfect family.
When it was my turn to start a family, I had to reflect deeply. I concluded that family isn’t defined solely by blood or shared interests. It’s about learning from the past rather than burying it out of shame. It’s crucial to acknowledge unhealthy patterns instead of assuming I could never replicate my parents’ mistakes. It’s about taking responsibility and not using my past as an excuse for any harm I may inflict on my children. Each day, I commit to being different.
Now, as a mother to my own daughter, I’m acutely aware of the patterns that run through our family, particularly the favoritism among siblings. I recognize my anxiety about societal judgments and my need for approval. However, I strive to ensure that this doesn’t come at the cost of my family’s well-being.
There are numerous toxic patterns in my family’s legacy, and I’m uncertain if I can unlearn them all. They were my only family, and although I’ve distanced myself, I can’t entirely escape the template they provided for future relationships. My focus is on self-improvement and recognizing any learned behaviors. The cycle ends with me.
What differentiates me from my family is my acceptance of imperfection. I understand that my family isn’t flawless, and I’m okay with that. I won’t always get everything right, and that’s acceptable too. I no longer feel the need to project an image of a perfect wife and mother; I love my husband and daughter for who they are. Unlike my parents, I have nothing to hide and proudly embrace the family I’ve created.
This is what the ideal family means to me: an imperfect unit that may not always meet societal standards. I know I won’t always be perceived as the perfect mom, but that’s irrelevant. What truly matters is our love and commitment to becoming the best versions of ourselves, fostering the healthiest relationships we can. Family is about effort, learning from mistakes, and striving to improve together.
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