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I have always had a fondness for meerkats. Their dark, beady eyes, rough caramel-colored fur, and whiskers draw me in. They seem like a blend of a rodent and a cat, or perhaps a curious African guinea pig. My fascination began at an early age, not due to their adorable looks, but because of their intricate underground homes. Meerkats excel at one thing: hiding. On that sweltering summer day in 1992, all I wanted was to join them. I yearned to crawl underground and vanish from the world.
The reasons behind this desire are layered. I endured a challenging childhood, which is a euphemism for an abusive one. My father regularly struck me, using the back of his hand or, more often, his belt. My mother constantly belittled me with harsh words, leaving me feeling worthless. By the age of eight, I was completely broken, convinced that I was unintelligent and a disappointment. Disappearing seemed like the best option. I learned to be quiet and still, hiding away.
I often built forts under my bed or concealed myself in the laundry hamper, surrounded by dirty clothes. Days before my ninth birthday, I attempted to run away. At twelve, I tried again, but I was unsuccessful. After my father passed away just before Thanksgiving, my situation worsened. My mother, who had previously balanced my father’s volatile nature, became intolerable. She yelled incessantly, hurling insults my way, and I continued to hide until I turned eighteen and could escape her house.
While my mother never physically harmed me, her sharp tongue inflicted wounds that cut deeply. For years, I sought to mend our relationship, hoping for a moment of enlightenment from her that would lead to healing. Unfortunately, that moment never arrived.
We did share some positive experiences. In 2005, I took her on a trip to Las Vegas, aiming for a family vacation filled with laughter and bonding. She shed tears of pride when I welcomed my first child. Yet, true reconciliation eluded me until her death from alcoholism in late June.
When I discovered her unresponsive, I was overwhelmed with mixed emotions. I understood that her abusive behavior stemmed from untreated mental health issues and addiction, and while I felt some empathy for her plight, I couldn’t ignore the pain she caused me. Her inability to confront her demons resulted in years of emotional turmoil for me. The day she passed, I felt a release. It was an end, and oddly, a sense of relief washed over me.
However, that relief was short-lived. Weeks later, I found myself consumed by anger. The weight of years of trauma resurfaced, leaving me feeling paralyzed once more. Instead of retreating, I committed to working with my therapist and psychiatrist to untangle the mess she left behind. I focused on nurturing and caring for myself in ways she never could. After thirteen months of hard work, frustration, and tears, I began to find a sense of peace regarding my mother’s abusive legacy.
Make no mistake: I haven’t forgiven her in the traditional sense. The hurtful words she hurled at me still echo in my mind. I have not visited her grave, and I am uncertain if I ever will. However, I have written letters to her, expressing how her choices impacted my life. I poured out my feelings, striving for closure and to heal the wounds that had festered for over three decades.
Was this journey easy? Absolutely not. It felt simpler to dwell in anger and sadness. But recognizing my past became the crucial first step toward moving forward — toward embracing my present and shaping my future.
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Summary:
This article explores the journey of healing and finding peace with an abusive mother after her death. The author reflects on their tumultuous childhood filled with verbal abuse and emotional pain, ultimately detailing the process of confronting and reconciling with their past. Through therapy and self-reflection, they share their path toward closure and the complexity of their feelings, illustrating that while forgiveness may not be attainable, understanding and self-care are vital steps forward.