My siblings and I often reminisce about our childhood. In many respects, those years were filled with joy. We came from a middle-class family, where my father earned enough to ensure we didn’t lack for anything essential, even if we weren’t affluent.
However, our upbringing set us apart from our peers. While other moms would be open to impromptu playdates, serving milk and cookies, our mother found any disruption to our routine unbearable. Visits had to be prearranged, complete with ground rules and time constraints. When friends left, we were expected to tidy up, restoring the order that had been interrupted by the brief presence of a few extra kids.
This rigid environment persists even today when the grandchildren visit.
My parents are still together and recently celebrated their fiftieth anniversary. They seem genuinely happy and continue to enjoy each other’s company. Yet, we recognize that my father is a remarkable man, and my mother, while loving, struggles with anxiety and has battled Obsessive Compulsive Disorder throughout her life. Her world is meticulously controlled, a cocoon created by her family who have tiptoed around her needs for years.
She couldn’t handle mess, noise, or chaos. As we grew older, her need for control escalated, severely impacting my social life. The years that should have been filled with carefree adventures were instead spent navigating a tightrope of expectations. I discouraged friends from visiting, fearing the chaos it would cause.
Soon, I found myself with only a few friends and became a target for relentless bullying. Despite being a high-achieving student, I dropped out of school at 17 to escape daily torment. Within a year, I met my first husband, a man who slowly coerced and controlled me until I became a fragile shell of who I once was—a woman who appeared composed to the outside world but was internally fighting for survival.
As the eldest daughter, I often felt responsible for my mother’s well-being. She was perpetually anxious, and I recall her taking medication for her nerves in my early teens. Her fears extended to constant warnings about the dangers of drinking, relationships, and drugs. When AIDS became a prominent issue in the media, she lived in fear that one of us would be affected. I was terrified of making mistakes that would push her over the edge.
While I knew she loved me, I never felt mothered. I often found myself playing the adult role, making sure the stove was off, the doors were locked, and the iron wasn’t left on. My anxiety mirrored hers, as I frequently asked to call home from school to check on things.
In moments of teenage rebellion, like when I got drunk at a disco, I felt completely isolated. I learned to cope with my pain alone, longing to escape the confines of my mother’s control.
By the time I moved in with my future husband at twenty, I was adept at walking on eggshells.
Reflecting on my five-year escape from a long-term abusive relationship, I often question why I accepted such treatment. I trace the beginning of my submissiveness back to that first date when I let him dictate our plans. Gradually, I diminished my own aspirations to make room for his. Over two decades, the abuse escalated as his need for control deepened, and I sacrificed my own identity to avoid conflict, just as I had with my mother.
Unlike my ex-husband, who acted out of deep insecurity, my mother’s controlling behavior stemmed from fear. While her intentions were well-meaning, the consequences were the same: I learned to relinquish my autonomy to another person.
Despite the challenges, I still love her, recognizing her struggles with mental health that she never fully addressed. I once harbored resentment but now, having navigated my own journey through motherhood, I find it easier to forgive her.
Accepting subpar treatment cost me a significant part of my life, and I’m still working on forgiving myself.
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In summary, my childhood instilled in me a sense of fear and anxiety that made me vulnerable to an abusive relationship. My mother’s struggles with mental health shaped my early experiences, leading me to accept treatment that ultimately cost me years of my life. Through reflection and healing, I’m learning to forgive both her and myself.
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