I’ve always had a fondness for meerkats. Their curious expressions, distinctive black eyes, and coarse, caramel fur have always captivated me. But it wasn’t just their looks; it was their underground homes that intrigued me. On a sweltering day in the summer of 1992, I envied their ability to hide away from the world. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into a burrow and vanish.
My childhood was challenging—an understatement that masks the reality of abuse. My father would frequently hit me with his hand or his belt, while my mother relentlessly belittled me with cutting remarks. By the time I reached the age of eight, I felt utterly defeated. I believed I wasn’t smart enough or good enough, and that I was a failure. Disappearing felt like the only sensible option, so I learned to hide.
I created makeshift forts under my bed and tucked myself away in laundry hampers among dirty clothes. I attempted to escape just days before my ninth birthday and tried again at twelve, but ultimately felt trapped. When my father died shortly before Thanksgiving, my mother’s demeanor shifted drastically. Where she once tempered his volatility, she became insufferable, hurling insults at me every moment. I continued to retreat until I turned eighteen and could finally leave her home.
Though my mother never physically harmed me, her words were sharp enough to cause lasting wounds. I held onto the hope that she might one day realize her mistakes and we could mend our relationship, but that never materialized. We had fleeting moments of connection, like when I took her to Las Vegas in 2005 for what I hoped would be a memorable trip. We laughed and shared drinks, and she expressed pride when I became a mother myself. Yet, true reconciliation eluded us until her death from alcoholism last June.
When I discovered her unconscious, I was flooded with conflicting emotions. I recognized that her abusive behavior stemmed from untreated mental illness and addiction, which elicited a degree of empathy from me. However, the pain she caused was profound, leaving me feeling like a product of neglect and abuse. On the day she passed away, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was finally over.
As time passed, however, I was confronted with anger rather than gratitude. The years of trauma came rushing back, leaving me feeling paralyzed once again. I yearned to retreat into hiding, but I chose to confront my feelings instead. With the support of my therapist and psychiatrist, I began to untangle the emotional mess she had left behind. After 13 months of hard work, I reached a place of acceptance and peace regarding my mother’s abuse.
While I haven’t forgiven her in the traditional sense, I have come to terms with my feelings. I still recall the sting of her harsh words and have yet to visit her grave. However, I found solace in writing her letters, expressing how her choices impacted my life, and seeking closure for the wounds that had festered for so long.
This process wasn’t easy. It would have been simpler to cling to my anger and sadness, but acknowledging my past was essential to my healing journey. It was the first step I needed to take to embrace my present and shape my future.
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In summary, my journey toward making peace with my abusive mother was complex and filled with pain. Through therapy and self-reflection, I’ve managed to find a sense of comfort and acceptance, even if forgiveness remains elusive.
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