In my early twenties, my stepmother made a chilling remark to my younger brother and me: “If I’d had a gun then, I would have used it.” This was her way of apologizing for the harsh words she hurled at us during our childhood — the threats, the belittling, the mockery. It was her way of acknowledging the stormy nights when she would leave, sometimes for days, leaving us to wrestle with guilt and confusion over what we might have done to provoke her fury.
I genuinely want to accept her apology. Now that we’re adults, she’s softer around the edges, supportive even. We’ve begun to realize that her behavior may stem from her own past of verbal abuse. But shaking off that history is no easy feat. Letting go and forgiving feels like an uphill battle.
Her comment about the gun was just the start of my journey to understand the depth of my experience — and now I’m beginning to see it clearly: yes, I was verbally abused, and my brother was too. It’s like reconstructing a jigsaw puzzle that I’d rather leave unsolved. For years, I dismissed it, convinced that “it was just words.” I told myself I should have been tougher, that I wasn’t as bad off as others. After all, there were no bruises or physical pain to show.
Then, I come across an article in Psychology Today titled “The Long Legacy of Childhood Verbal Abuse.” The description of a verbal abuse victim resonates so deeply that it feels like a mirror reflecting my own experiences: “In the wake of continued verbal aggression, it’s hard for a child to sort out whether he or she is feeling afraid, shamed, hurt, or angry.” Reading this, I can’t help but remember how terrified I was as a teenager, suppressing my anger until it eventually erupted, leaving me ashamed.
The article explains that the internalization of degrading words alters one’s self-esteem and behavior. The term “self-criticism” sounds benign, but it can spiral into self-hatred, making someone feel worthless and undeserving of love. As I read, I often find myself tearing up, wanting to hurl my computer out the window because those words cut deeper than anything else could.
I dive into studies mentioned in the article, discovering that social rejection — which is essentially what verbal abuse is — activates the same neural pathways in the brain as physical pain. It’s sobering to learn that parental verbal abuse can permanently alter a child’s brain structure, and not for the better. “We know that abuse leaves behind a specific legacy,” the article concludes.
What legacy has it left for me? I often wonder if I’m exaggerating the impact of my stepmother’s words. I think, “I yell at my kids sometimes. Isn’t that normal?” Then the truth hits me: it has created a woman who struggles to acknowledge her pain, who justifies her experiences, and who tries to push the hurt back down.
Her comment about the gun offered a moment of clarity. Yes, her words were laden with violent rage. Yes, I had every right to feel fear. Part of me wants to thank her for reminding me of the truth, for helping me confront my past.
But what I truly need is not her apology or her acknowledgment. I need to find my own voice, to stand up against abuse, and to ensure it never touches my children. I want to break this cycle and create a life where I embrace the beauty and strength that should have been nurtured in me all along.
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In summary, verbal abuse is a profound experience that leaves a lasting mark on individuals. Acknowledging its impact can be challenging, but finding one’s voice and breaking the cycle is crucial for healing and building a healthier future.