March 24, 2021
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My siblings and I often reminisce about our childhood. In many respects, those years were delightful. We came from a middle-class background, and while we weren’t wealthy, we had everything we needed.
However, our home life was different from that of our friends. While other mothers would spontaneously invite kids over for playdates, my mother required everything to be planned in advance, complete with rules and time limits. After our friends left, it was time to tidy up and restore the order that had been disrupted by the brief visit of a few extra eight-year-olds.
This pattern continues even now when the grandchildren visit.
My parents are still married and celebrated their fiftieth anniversary this year. They genuinely seem to enjoy each other’s company. Yet, we know our dad is a true saint. My mother, a kind and loving woman who adores her family, has battled anxiety and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder throughout her adult life. She lives a life wrapped in a protective bubble, one that her husband and daughters have unwittingly created by tiptoeing around her.
She struggled with messes, disruptions, and noise. As we grew older, her need for control intensified, which severely affected my friendships. The years that should have been filled with freedom and carefree moments at the beach felt more like a balancing act. I did my best to deter friends from visiting.
Soon enough, I found myself with only a handful of friends and became the target of relentless bullying. I left school at 17 to escape the daily torment. Within a year, I met my first husband, who gradually coerced and controlled me until I became a fragile, empty shell of a woman—someone who appeared to have everything together on the outside but was screaming for help on the inside.
As the eldest daughter, I often worried about my mother’s well-being. She was perpetually on edge. I remember her taking medication for anxiety when I was in my teens. She believed we were always in danger and frequently lectured us about the risks of drinking, dating, and drugs. The fears intensified when AIDS became a prominent topic in the media, and she was convinced one of us would contract it. I lived in constant dread of making a mistake that could push her over the edge.
Despite her love for me, I never felt mothered. I often felt like the adult in our relationship, responsible for ensuring the stove was off, the doors were locked, and the iron was unplugged. The list was never-ending.
In high school, my anxiety led me to see the school counselor because I regularly panicked about leaving appliances on at home. When I faced humiliation at a disco or was labeled frigid by a boyfriend, my mother was the last person I could confide in. I learned to process my pain alone.
I couldn’t wait to leave home, but I lacked confidence in my ability to live independently. I craved love but didn’t believe I deserved it. I was tired of living under my mother’s strict conditions and navigating her triggers. I was desperate for someone to rescue me. When I moved in with my future husband at 20, I was already well-versed in walking on eggshells.
Five years after escaping a long-term abusive relationship, I still grapple with the aftermath. I reflect on why I accepted the treatment I endured and try to identify the early signs of dysfunction. To be honest, I think it started on our first date. From the outset, I stepped back and let him dictate our lives.
Before long, I was diminishing myself to elevate him. My dreams of travel, writing, and exploration were discarded. After all, someone loved me—what more could I need? For reasons I can’t articulate, I made my world smaller to accommodate him. This led to over twenty years of escalating abusive behavior fueled by his need for control.
In a way, I sacrificed my own life to avoid the consequences of stepping out of line, just as I did with my mother.
My mother was controlling as well, but unlike my ex-husband, who acted from deep insecurity, she operated out of fear—fear that something terrible would happen to us. While her motivations may have been innocent, the consequences were the same. Once you surrender your decision-making and autonomy to another person, reclaiming it is a long and arduous journey.
I still love her. She’s a caring mother with mental health issues that she has never fully addressed. Initially, I resented her for this, but now that I’ve navigated my own challenges as a mother, I have a deeper understanding and have come to forgive her. Accepting poor treatment cost me precious years of my life, and I’m still working on forgiving myself.
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- how to recognize abusive relationships
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In summary, my childhood shaped a vulnerability that made me susceptible to an abusive marriage. The battle to reclaim my autonomy and understand the intricacies of my upbringing continues, but I have learned to forgive both myself and my mother.