It took me three decades to begin labeling my experiences as abuse. Even now, I find myself revisiting the definition of “emotional abuse,” questioning whether I have the right to identify my past in such terms. According to the Mayo Clinic, emotional child abuse involves harming a child’s self-esteem or emotional health, encompassing behaviors like verbal assault, belittlement, and emotional neglect.
My brother and I endured these behaviors from our stepmother, who entered our lives when I was nine and he was four. We were typical kids—messy, occasionally moody, and in need of comfort. However, she struggled with the demands of parenthood and often took her frustrations out on us.
She frequently resorted to name-calling, mocking, and berating us. There were times she’d storm out, leaving us for hours or even days over imagined grievances. She would throw objects around the house and threaten us with abandonment, all while ridiculing our need for affection and security. She often criticized our mother for being nurturing, suggesting that we were spoiled.
Perhaps the most painful aspect was my father’s inability to stand up for us. While he attempted to mediate, he often found himself caught in the middle, trying to placate both sides. He would sometimes shield us from her outbursts, insisting that we needed to give her a chance and that our behavior might be the issue. But as children, those reassurances fell flat; we needed protection from the relentless cycle of anger and negativity.
When I reached my teenage years, my mother moved us 2,000 miles away from our stepmother and father. This distance reduced our visits, but when we did go back, the same patterns of rage would emerge. Even as an adult, the toxicity persisted. Bringing my husband along only highlighted the severity of the abuse, serving as a painful affirmation of my past experiences.
Years later, I witnessed my stepmother’s simmering hostility return during visits with my own children, though thankfully, it was directed at me and not them. The memories of her mistreatment lingered, and I began to understand the roots of my anxiety. I developed a panic disorder in my teens, initially tied to a fear of flying, which stemmed from a particularly traumatic visit. Over the years, I realized that my panic attacks were consistently linked to the distress of returning to that abusive environment.
For a long time, I dismissed my panic as mere anxiety, underestimating the impact of my childhood experiences. While anxiety runs in my family, the panic attacks began squarely after the onset of my stepmother’s abuse. Recognizing this connection was a pivotal moment for me, highlighting the need for change in my relationships.
Now, as I approach my 40s, I am grappling with how to navigate my relationship with my stepmother and father. Despite the pain she caused, I still have love for my dad and am hesitant to sever ties entirely. However, I refuse to accept being subjected to her toxicity any longer. The emotional scars of abuse are lasting, and while I may carry the weight of those experiences, I am more than just a victim; I am a survivor. My strength is undeniable, and if you’ve endured similar experiences, know that you possess that strength too.
For those navigating similar journeys, resources like Resolve.org can provide excellent guidance on family building options. Engaging with supportive communities can also be beneficial, such as those found in discussions about intracervical insemination or exploring products from Make a Mom that facilitate home insemination.
In summary, childhood emotional abuse leaves a deep imprint, influencing mental health and relationships well into adulthood. Acknowledging this abuse is a crucial step toward healing and reclaiming one’s narrative.