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My Childhood Left Me Vulnerable to an Abusive Partner
by Clara Thompson
March 24, 2021
My siblings and I often reminisce about our early years. In many respects, those were delightful times. We grew up in a middle-class family where my father’s income allowed us a comfortable life — not lavish, but we were never deprived.
However, our lifestyle set us apart from our peers. While other mothers welcomed spontaneous visits filled with laughter and snacks, our mother struggled with any disruption to our carefully structured routine. Playdates required advance planning, complete with established rules and strict timeframes. After our friends departed, it was our responsibility to restore order, tidying up as if the brief visit had never occurred. This pattern remains unchanged even now when grandchildren come to visit.
My parents are still together and recently celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary, appearing genuinely happy in each other’s company. However, we recognize that our father is nothing short of a saint. Our mother, a loving and devoted woman, has also battled anxiety and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder throughout her adult life. She has lived in a carefully controlled environment, one that her family has unknowingly contributed to by walking on eggshells around her.
My mother had a low tolerance for mess, noise, or chaos. As we grew, her need to maintain control over our home intensified, severely affecting my friendships. What should have been a time of exploration and carefree summers instead felt like navigating a minefield. I soon discouraged friends from coming over entirely, which ultimately led to a small circle of friends and relentless bullying.
Despite being a high-achieving student, I dropped out of school at 17 to escape the torment. Within a year, I met my first husband, who gradually manipulated and controlled me until I became a mere shadow of my former self. I appeared to have it all together on the outside, but inside, I was in turmoil, struggling for my very existence.
As the eldest daughter, I often found myself preoccupied with ensuring my mother’s well-being. She was perpetually anxious, often relying on medication to cope. My mother believed we were always in danger and frequently lectured us, particularly me, about the perils of drinking, relationships, and drugs. The emergence of AIDS in the early eighties heightened her fears; I lived in constant anxiety that I might make a mistake that would send her into a tailspin.
I never felt her love. Although I know she loved me, I never experienced that connection. Instead, I often felt like the adult in our relationship, responsible for ensuring everything was safe — checking that the stove was off, the doors were locked, and that the iron was unplugged. This anxiety became a part of my identity; I sought the help of counselors in high school due to my frequent panic over leaving appliances on.
My relationship with my mother made me wary of sharing my struggles. When I faced humiliation in social situations or heartbreak from a boyfriend, she was the last person I could confide in. I learned to process my pain in isolation.
I was eager to leave home but lacked confidence in my ability to survive independently. I longed for love yet didn’t believe I deserved it. I simply wanted freedom from my mother’s demands and the burden of navigating her triggers. By the time I moved in with my future husband at twenty, I had mastered the art of tiptoeing around volatile situations.
Reflecting on my life five years after escaping years of domestic abuse, I ponder why I accepted such treatment for so long. I can trace the beginnings of this acceptance back to my very first date; I allowed him to dictate our activities, gradually diminishing my own identity. My dreams of travel and writing faded into the background. With someone loving me, I felt I needed nothing more.
For reasons I can’t quite articulate, I made my world smaller to accommodate his needs. What followed was over two decades of escalating abuse, driven by his insatiable desire for control. I sacrificed my own aspirations to avoid the repercussions of making a mistake, mirroring my experiences with my mother.
My mother, too, exerted control from a place of fear, albeit unknowingly. While my ex-husband’s actions stemmed from insecurity and arrogance, my mother’s motives were rooted in concern for our safety. Regardless of intention, the consequences were similar. Once you relinquish control over your own choices and beliefs, reclaiming your autonomy becomes a daunting challenge.
I still have love for her, a mother who has struggled with her mental health. For a long time, I resented her, but after navigating my own motherhood journey, I have found some understanding and forgiveness. Accepting poor treatment has cost me a significant part of my life and I continue to work on forgiving myself.
This piece originally appeared on Medium.
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In summary, my childhood experiences shaped my vulnerabilities, making me susceptible to an abusive relationship. This journey of reflection has highlighted the importance of understanding one’s past to reclaim autonomy and foster personal growth.