The Cycle of Abuse

It's a strange thing really, when you open up to your parent abuser about the trauma and the hurt they put you through, and you expect a reasonable, healthy response. It's insanity quite frankly.

So why did it feel like a cut from a thousand swords, slicing my heart into pieces, when my mother, in response to my vulnerability, called me "an ungrateful bitch?"

I barely remember my childhood. I have more memories of my pre-teen and teenage years. The suffering. The deep pervasive sadness. The dread every time the garage door opened, and I knew my mom was coming home. Waiting to hear her shout at me to come downstairs and do her bidding. I used to think of her presence as a canker sore. A toxic cloud weighing down oppressively in the home. But in the presence of strangers, she'd put on a fake face and act loving, and some people even had the audacity to tell me how lucky I am to have her as a mother. I wanted to scream at them about the frequent beatings I'd get from various wooden objects, how one time she threw me down the stairs and locked me out in the cold in my bathing suit because I had the audacity to try and wash in the sink, after she had forbade me to shower. I wanted to show them the countless nights where I would go to bed hungry because the fridge would be empty, and she came home from work and just lay on the couch watching TV (which she had forbidden us from watching). But somehow, I always had sympathy for her, I viewed her as an unwilling victim of my father's religious crusade. A woman scorned and abandoned in the name of God.

My father wasn't of much help either. He was a weak man who kotowed to his new wife and his new found religion. And in his home I endured hungry nights, bullying from his wife, and his constant preaching of religious dogma. And he was subtly controlling and manipulative in his own way, hiding under the guise of innocence and piety. He liked to play the role of the unassuming, naive intellectual. A convenient disguise to avoid blame or responsibility.

By 18, I had developed such a deep contempt and hatred for myself. A prime victim for a lonely, angry boy to sweep me off my feet at 19. And so, due to religious programming, guilt, shame, and a deep desire to be rescued and loved, I married a controlling, manipulative man.

9 years and two kids later and no career or money to speak of, I finally left him. Only to find myself back to being dependent on my first abusers, my parents.

My mother moved in with me. And for a moment I thought she had changed, because at a distance she had been so sympathetic, so supportive. But the day she moved, I was immediately thrust back into her negativity, anxiousness, controlling behaviors, and sometimes outright nastiness. But now I'm seeing it through an adult lense, which has given me so much clarity on how deeply many of these negative behaviors had been ingrained in my subconscious. I have gained a lot of incite on my own behaviors and thought patterns. What makes everything so much more mentally draining is she has episodes of compassion even empathy. She has been so helpful with childcare and household chores, leaving me feeling confused, guilty, and grateful but with a nagging feeling like I owe her for all the help.

And so once again I find myself treading on thin ice. Trying so hard to be grateful and to keep the peace, and yet also not being a doormat that can be controlled and abused. But how do you set boundaries with someone who does not respect boundaries or respect you as a person? How do you try to explain how you feel and improve communication, when your feelings are invalidated, and you are gaslit until you back down?

And that's how I found myself at the brunt of her anger and nastiness, as she narrowed her eyes and looked at me with all the animosity she could muster " You're really a bitch. You're an ungrateful little bitch." I could see the corner of her mouth almost turn into a smile, as she relished in her meaness. That's another thing I noticed about my mother, is that she enjoys being mean. It gives her pleasure. And tonight, when I stood up for myself and did not allow her to gaslight me, she turned that spitefulness on me. It shattered me to see that look of joy she got in tearing her own daughter down.

What a mindfuck it is to have to run back to your original abusers for help, in order to escape the abuser you married, because you were looking for salvation from your original abusers. Ah...the circle of life.