My siblings and I often reminisce about our childhoods. In many respects, those years were delightful. We grew up in a middle-class family; our father earned enough to ensure that while we weren’t affluent, we also didn’t lack.
However, our upbringing was distinct from that of our peers. Other mothers would readily welcome spontaneous after-school playdates, offering milk and cookies, while our mother struggled with any disruption to our routine. Visits to our home required prior arrangements, complete with strict guidelines and time restrictions. Once our friends departed, it was time to restore order to our space, disturbed temporarily by the presence of a few extra eight-year-old girls.
This pattern remains unchanged even when the grandchildren visit.
Our parents remain together and recently celebrated their fiftieth anniversary. They genuinely seem happy and continue to enjoy each other’s company. Yet, we recognize that our father is a saint in his own right. Our mother is kind and loving, deeply devoted to her family, but she also battles severe anxiety and has dealt with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder throughout her adult life. She lives wrapped in a protective bubble, one that her husband and daughters have unknowingly created by tiptoeing around her for years.
My mother’s inability to handle mess, noise, or disruptions intensified as we grew older, significantly impacting my friendships. The years that should have been filled with new freedoms and carefree summer days were instead spent navigating a precarious balance. I actively discouraged my friends from visiting.
Before long, my circle of friends dwindled, and I became a target for relentless bullying. Despite being a high-achieving student, I dropped out of school at 17 to escape the daily torment. Within a year, I met my first spouse, who would gradually manipulate and control me until I became a fragile, hollow version of myself—a woman who appeared to have it all together on the outside but was internally screaming for help.
As the oldest daughter, I often felt the weight of responsibility. Even before reaching my teenage years, I was constantly anxious about my mother. She was perpetually on edge, relying on prescription medication to cope. She believed we were always in danger and frequently lectured us—especially me, as the eldest—about the perils of drinking, teenage relationships, and drugs. When the AIDS crisis emerged in the early eighties, she became convinced that one of us would contract it. I lived in fear of making a mistake that could push her over the edge.
I didn’t feel loved by her, even though I knew she cared. I often felt like the adult in our relationship, tasked with ensuring everything was in order—checking that the stove was off, the doors were locked, and that she had not left the iron on. The list of responsibilities was endless.
I began mirroring her behavior. In high school, I was summoned to the school counselor’s office because staff noticed my frequent anxious requests to use the phone to call home, convinced I had left my curling iron on, which would lead to a fire.
When I faced embarrassing moments, like getting drunk at a dance or being labeled frigid and dumped by my boyfriend for not being intimate, my mother was the last person I could turn to. I learned to process my pain alone.
Eager to leave home, I felt trapped by my mother’s anxiety. Although I was desperate for love, I didn’t believe I deserved it. I was tired of living according to her rules and avoiding her triggers. By the time I moved in with my future husband at twenty, I had become adept at walking on eggshells.
After five years of enduring domestic abuse, I still reflect on why I tolerated such treatment. I can trace it back to our first date when I relinquished my decision-making power, allowing him to dictate our activities and social circle. Before I knew it, I had diminished myself to accommodate him. All my aspirations—traveling, writing, and exploring—were cast aside. His affection felt sufficient, and I willingly shrank my world to fit his needs. This led to over two decades of escalating abuse fueled by his desire to control every aspect of my life.
I sacrificed my well-being to avoid the repercussions of making a misstep—much like I had done with my mother.
My mother’s control was rooted in her own fears, unlike my ex-husband, whose actions stemmed from deep-seated insecurity and selfishness. Although her motivations were innocent, the consequences were the same. Once you surrender your autonomy and decision-making to another, reclaiming it becomes a long and arduous journey.
Despite everything, I still love her. She is a caring mother grappling with mental health issues that she has never fully confronted. For a long time, I resented her; however, having traversed my own challenges in motherhood, I have gained a better understanding of her. I have learned to forgive her, but accepting poor treatment cost me a significant part of my life, and I am still working on forgiving myself.
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Summary:
Reflecting on my childhood, I realize how my home life shaped my vulnerability to an abusive partner. Growing up under the control of a mother with anxiety and obsessive-compulsive tendencies instilled in me a fear of making mistakes and a need to please. This environment led me into a relationship where I sacrificed my autonomy and dreams for another’s desires. After enduring years of emotional turmoil, I am still on a path to reclaim my identity and forgive myself for the years lost in poor treatment.