Reflecting on my childhood often brings mixed emotions. While there were beautiful moments, my family’s middle-class status meant we were never truly affluent, yet we didn’t lack for essentials either. However, our lifestyle diverged significantly from that of my friends. Where their mothers welcomed impromptu playdates with snacks, my mother needed everything to adhere strictly to our routine. Any visit to our home was meticulously planned with set rules and time constraints. Once our friends departed, it was time to tidy up and restore the order that had been interrupted by a few extra children.
This behavior continues with her grandchildren.
My parents are still together, celebrating their fiftieth anniversary this year, and they genuinely seem happy. Yet, we recognize that our father is a saint. Our mother, while loving and devoted, has struggled with anxiety and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder her entire life. She lives in a bubble of security created by her family, who have tiptoed around her needs for years.
My mother was overwhelmed by mess, noise, and disruption. As I grew older, her need for control intensified, severely impacting my friendships. What should have been carefree summers and newfound freedoms felt more like walking a tightrope. I soon discouraged my friends from visiting, leading to a small circle and relentless bullying. Despite excelling academically, I dropped out at 17 to escape daily torment. Within a year, I met my first husband, a man who would gradually manipulate and control me until I felt like a mere shadow of my former self.
Being the eldest daughter, I often felt responsible for my mother’s well-being. From a young age, I sensed her anxiety. I remember her taking medications like Serapax during my early teens, hinting at a possible addiction. She constantly warned us about dangers, from alcohol to relationships, and when AIDS gained media attention in the ’80s, she became convinced one of us would contract it. I lived in constant fear of disappointing my mother or triggering her anxiety.
Although I knew she loved me, I never felt it. I often took on the role of the adult, responsible for ensuring the stove was off and the doors were locked. My anxiety mirrored hers; at school, I was often called in to see the counselor due to my frequent panic about leaving appliances on. During my teenage years, when I faced humiliation at parties or relationship issues, my mother was the last person I could confide in, leading me to process my pain alone.
I longed to leave home but lacked the confidence. I craved love yet didn’t believe I deserved it. The oppressive atmosphere drove me to seek escape, and by the time I moved in with my future husband at twenty, I had mastered the art of walking on eggshells.
Five years after breaking free from a long-term abusive relationship, I still grapple with its effects. I often reflect on why I accepted such treatment and the early signs I missed. From our first date, I allowed him to make decisions for me, gradually sacrificing my aspirations and dreams for his comfort. I willingly shrank my world to accommodate him, leading to over two decades of escalating abuse driven by his need for control.
My mother, too, exhibited controlling behaviors. While my ex-husband acted out of deep insecurity, my mother’s actions stemmed from fear. Despite her intentions, the outcomes were similar. Surrendering my autonomy to others proved to be a challenging journey back to reclaiming my life.
Despite everything, I still love my mother. She’s a caring individual struggling with unresolved mental health issues. While I once resented her, I now empathize with her, having faced my own motherhood challenges. I do forgive her, but accepting poor treatment cost me dearly, and I continue to work on forgiving myself.
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