For as long as I can remember, having a mother was meant to be this great advantage in life. You had a friend, a confidant, a fixed figure to place your trust in and depend on. I’ve always been told how lucky I am to have a mother. And only recently have I realized it isn’t true.
I was the third and last kid in my family. And, being the youngest, I was somewhat spoiled and high maintenance. I’ll admit it; I wasn’t an easy kid to deal with, especially while wrestling with the violent turmoil of divorce.
The infighting in my family was apparent from a very young age when I realized the fights my parents had were nothing like the fights I saw on TV.
In elementary school, there was a custody battle, a trial, slammed doors. I was shipped between houses like I was a suitcase to be packed up and stuffed into a trunk. I was emptied out in convenient pieces when was necessary. My mother would coach me on what to tell the social workers that came to the house. They didn’t seem like lies when she said them.
In middle school, my brother left, and my sister grew cold towards my mother. Being in high school and far more observant than myself, she had reached an understanding I was incapable of at the time. She lived at my father’s house while I continued to bounce between parents.
My mother’s words became strange to me over time. The custody battle was over, but she behaved as if still she was fighting for something, some goal only she could see. She would disobey court orders to send me back to my father’s house, but send cops over if she felt I’d been gone too long. It was a frightening experience being alone and pulled between two places. I clung to my belief that my mother did what’s best for me as she always said she did. I rolled my eyes when my dad called her crazy. I shoved down feelings of unease when my mother asked my ceaseless questions of what my father had been doing, where he’d been going. I hugged her when she showed up unannounced on his doorstep, and would wave goodbye from the doorway when he yelled at her in the street. The sight of my mom’s headlights became familiar to me, her tail lights even more so.
In high school, I began to understand what my father meant when he called her crazy, why my sister had left years ago. My mother began telling me conspiracy theories about people conspiring to take me away from her, paranoid tales that sounds together unrelated entities into a web of deceptions bound together for one purpose- to take me from her. She’d given up on my sister long ago. The only child she had left to focus on was me.
She began to have explosive outbursts. This was something I’d realized she’d always had but hadn’t realized were unnatural. Her face would turn red, eyes bulging over the slightest ire, and I would remember when she threw a saucepan at the wall when my sister didn’t wash the dishes. The pan dented horribly and clattered on the floor while my sister and I stood there shocked. We would need a new pan, afterwards.
My fears culminated on the day of my high school prom when my mother called me a “worthless whore” when I wouldn’t allow her to do my makeup. In her mind, I was her possession, hers to clothe, primp, and style to her desire with no input from the object of her attention. I was distraught, and had an emotional breakdown that very nearly ruined my night. It was after that day I decided I couldn’t let her obsession ruin me. I cut all ties I feasibly could short of changing my number and disavowing my extended maternal family. I was lucky that I was able to do this. There are many people still living with toxic, abusive parents, and I count my getting out as a blessing.
To this day, seeing my mother fills me with a queasy fear that I smother in anger. It’s a hatred that doesn’t abet, especially as I become more aware of the paranoia and manipulation throughout my life that she called love.
Having a poisonous relationship can damage a person’s life, something which I’ve experienced first hand and attest to. My protective instinct is constantly in overdrive, and I am quick to terminate relationships that I view as emotionally threatening. It’s not a healthy way to live, not in the slightest, and I know it’s a slippery slope into the paranoia I fear my mother has passed down to me as surely as she passed down her facial features.
If you’re living with a toxic parent, or are in an otherwise abusive relationship, get help. Even if you can’t get out, do your best to find someone you can trust. Whether that’s a friend, co-worker, or a therapist. UCF offers mental health services and victim support on campus as well as through their insurance. A support group is an important part of making yourself feel safe again.
Check out these other things that might help:
Have things that you can control: Whether its making routines, getting into fitness and exercise, or learning self defense, find something that you can control.
Read: Toxic Parents by Dr. Susan Forward. This book is described as “All parents fall short from time to time. But Susan Forward pulls no punches when it comes to those whose deficiencies cripple their children emotionally. Her brisk, unreserved guide to overcoming the stultifying agony of parental manipulation–from power trips to guilt trips and all other killers of self worth–will help deal with the pain of childhood and move beyond the frustrating relationship patterns learned at home.”
Keep a journal: This is a cathartic activity, and can also serve as a form of evidence if necessary.
Make goals: Big or small, work towards something to create a sense of achievement in yourself as you take steps to complete it.
Have an outlet: UCF has a variety of clubs, sports, volunteering, and other activities to keep you engaged, distracted, or whatever you might need in the moment. Whether it’s buying paintball tickets on Wednesday to blow off some steam, or catching the latest pay put on by the theater, there’s always somewhere for you to go.