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My Childhood Set the Stage for an Abusive Marriage
by Clara Jenkins
March 24, 2021
My sisters and I often reminisce about our childhood. In many respects, those years were filled with joy. Our family was comfortably middle class; while we were never affluent, we didn’t feel deprived either.
However, our lifestyle was distinct from that of our peers. While other moms were quick to embrace impromptu playdates with cookies and milk, our mother struggled with any disruption to our daily routine. Visits had to be prearranged, complete with rules and time constraints. Once our friends departed, it was time to restore order, cleaning up after the temporary chaos brought by a handful of energetic eight-year-olds.
This pattern continues even with her grandchildren today.
Our parents are still happily together, having celebrated their fiftieth anniversary this year. They genuinely seem content and enjoy each other’s company. Yet, we understand that our dad is nothing short of a saint. Our mother is a loving individual who adores her family but also battles anxiety and has struggled with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder throughout her adult life. She lives in a protective bubble that we, her husband and daughters, have inadvertently created by tiptoeing around her for years.
Our mother found it hard to handle messiness, noise, or disruption. As we grew older, her need for control over our home environment intensified. This had a detrimental effect on my social life. The years that should have been filled with freedom and carefree beach days felt more like a balancing act. Inviting friends over became a challenge, and I often discouraged them from coming at all.
Before long, I was left with only a few friends and became the target of relentless bullying. Despite being a high-achieving student, I dropped out of high school at seventeen to escape the daily torment. Within a year, I met my first husband, a man who would gradually manipulate and dominate me until I became a mere shadow of myself, appearing composed on the outside but feeling like I was fighting for my life internally.
As the eldest daughter, I recall feeling an overwhelming sense of responsibility for my mother even before I hit my teenage years. She was perpetually anxious, and I remember her taking medication to cope. My mother believed we were in constant danger and frequently lectured us—especially me, as the oldest—about the perils of alcohol, teenage relationships, and drugs. When the AIDS crisis made headlines in the early eighties, she was convinced one of us would contract it. I lived in a persistent state of anxiety, terrified I would make a mistake that might push her over the edge.
Though I know my mother loved me, I never truly felt it. I often felt like the adult in our relationship. I was responsible for ensuring the stove was off, the doors were locked, and that the iron was unplugged. The list was endless.
In high school, my anxiety led me to seek help from the school counselor after repeatedly needing to call home, convinced I had left my curling iron on and would cause a fire. When I faced embarrassment at a party for drinking too much, or when I was dumped by a boyfriend for not being intimate enough, I found that my mother was the last person I could confide in. I learned to process my pain alone.
The desire to escape was overwhelming. I longed to leave home, but I lacked the confidence to stand on my own. I desperately craved love but didn’t believe I deserved it. I was exhausted from living under my mother’s strict conditions and tiptoeing around her triggers. By the time I moved in with my future husband at twenty, I had become adept at walking on eggshells.
Accepting poor treatment has shaped my life, and five years after breaking free from a long-term abusive relationship, I am still healing. I often reflect on why I accepted such treatment and try to identify the warning signs that were present from the very beginning. In truth, my submissiveness began on our first date; I let him dictate our plans, and before long, I was diminishing myself to elevate him. All my aspirations were cast aside. After all, I had someone who loved me—what more could I ask for?
For reasons I cannot fully articulate, I willingly shrank my world to accommodate him. This led to over twenty years of escalating abuse, fueled by his insidious need to control every aspect of my life. I sacrificed my own happiness to avoid the repercussions of making a misstep, just as I did with my mother.
While my mother’s control stemmed from fear rather than malice, the result was the same. Once you learn to surrender your decision-making and autonomy to another person, reclaiming that independence can be a long and arduous journey.
I still love my mother, who is a caring individual grappling with mental health issues she has never fully confronted. For a long time, I resented her for this, but as I navigate my own challenging journey of motherhood, I’ve begun to understand her more. I do forgive her.
Accepting mistreatment has cost me a significant portion of my life, and I am still working on forgiving myself.
This piece first appeared on Medium.
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Summary:
The author reflects on how her childhood shaped her vulnerability to an abusive marriage. Growing up with an anxious mother who struggled with control issues, she felt responsible for her mother’s well-being, leading to anxiety and isolation. This dynamic contributed to her accepting poor treatment from her first husband. After escaping a long-term abusive relationship, she continues to heal and understand the impact of her upbringing on her relationships and self-worth.