Why I Left My Mom- Intro

Have you ever left an abuser and all of sudden, years of actions they did that always felt uncomfortable- but you didn't know why, are clear now? Like the filter has been taken off? Like you just woke up and realized everything that had been truly happening this entire time? Right in front of you?

My Mother and I have quite a history. I mean, mothers and children do. My mother knew me before I even came into this world. But even from the beginning, it's always been rough. Did my mother ever trap me in a basement in chains and malnourished me?

No. And I feel terrible for those who have to endure that. I feel for them.

But she has harmed me in other ways- in ways that are still affecting me to this day as a 34-year-old adult just wanting to enjoy this lifetime and feel good about herself. She made me feel terrible about myself. She made me feel like I wasn't allowed to have feelings. She taught me to believe I only deserved love under conditions. She taught me I wasn't allowed to feel angry or upset and to keep to myself. She constantly brought me down and reminded me how I wasn't good enough. And how I would never be good enough for her.

There's so much history to unpack that I thought I'd write this like a memoir of some sort. It's really just me splurging out my thoughts. Ever since I read Jennette McCurdy's "I'm Glad My Mom Died", I've been open and more aware of my mother's actions, currently and in the past. 

I want to clarify that I am not a psychiatrist or mental health specialist by any means. I have studied a lot of it and could probably become one if I wanted to but I am not professional. I am simply musing on my own thoughts based on what I have observed, read, and learned from actual mental health experts. In the end, the only person who will ever know what's truly going on in her head, is my mother herself. And that is something I am accepting she will never truly accept herself.

Of course, if my mother read any of this, she might get defensive and say she already apologized for it, or deny it, or turn it around to make herself look like a Martyr of some sort. And of course, she'll ALWAYS somehow point the finger back at me in some way. She might say I'm overreacting, or I can't let go. She has never been able to take the full blame in her own actions in anyway whatsoever. Even up to current day. 

I'm starting to write this out as a therapeutic action for me. I've always enjoyed writing. It always seems to help others move on and get things out that they are afraid to speak out loud. Maybe someday someone will read this, and it will help them in their journey as well- let them know we're not alone. Especially in a society where my generation is one of the firsts to take the big step to walk away from toxic parents and cut them off- a practice that was once frowned upon and still is by the generations who are being cut off. In this transitional period of how we approach the relationship with emotionally abusive parents as we get older, I think one of the best things I can do is talk about it and maybe, just maybe, help people realize why blood isn't always family, and why even something that is so healthy for us, is one of the hardest decisions we have to make. But overall, I think this will be good for me to do. And if some other poor child of a narcissistic mother happens to lay their eyes upon this someday, I hope it can help them start taking that filter off too.