Abuse and Motherhood

Guest Post- Abuse and Motherhood

 

It wasn’t my original intention to share this part of me, but in light of recent events my emotional wounds are so raw and so real, I just had to find a way to get them out. Even as I sit typing now, tears are flowing down my face. This is a little look into my real life. A part of me that most would never guess is there, a part of me that I’m more than willing to talk to others about, but usually I speak from a very emotionally unattached way. Not today. These past couple of days have been both liberating and painful for me. For in these past couple of days I stopped pretending and I demanded answers.

 

 

When I was growing up I lived in fear. Fear of my step-dad and not knowing what he would do next. When I was younger, my step-dad physically abused my brothers and I. We lived in a home full of drugs, abuse, neglect, and fear. My step-dad was an emotional loose cannon (in my opinion still is); we would never know what side of him we would encounter. Honestly, I can’t remember a lot of my childhood; I think it’s my way of coping with all that happened. The parts I do remember are not pretty. They are painful and I still see them through the eyes of a terrified child. I know that other people had it much worse than we did. We were never abandoned with a bartender, and we never had to go to the hospital for our wounds, nor were we ever close to the brink of death. But I still think that doesn’t make what we suffered any less real, any less scary. I don’t ever remember him hurting my mom, but I do remember every time my mom would say she would leave him, I felt hope inside; only to be crushed when we would stay.

 

When I was older it turned into emotional abuse, with just the occasional slap across the face. I think I was a pretty good kid growing up. I was almost always on the honor roll and my teachers and classmates liked me. Somewhere along the path to home, that seemed to change, at least for my parents. I was always told how awful I was, how I was a failure, how I never did anything right. I was called horrible names on a regular basis. I was told that I was manipulative and that I was trying to turn my mother against my step-dad. There were lots and lots of things that my step dad said to me, and none were caring words.

 

There are moments I remember as a teenager that sort of sum of what life was like. The first was when I had the flu. It was a year when the flu season was particularly bad. I had mustered up the energy and was trying to get to my mom to tell her how bad I was feeling. I didn’t make it all the way. I fell short of her room and ended up collapsing on the kitchen floor. Just as I was lying there my step-dad came by. Instead of helping, he looked at me with such disgust and disdain on his face and kept on walking. Eventually I made it to my mom, and ended up in the ER for severe dehydration. That look he gave me has stuck with me all these years.

 

Another moment that sums up how things were was with my mother. My brothers had moved out for quit sometime and I was the younger still at home. It was on a night of a particularly fierce argument I had with my step-dad. I had told him I would struggle with my chores that week because I had finals to study for and I had a lot of hours at work. He became irate and called me awful names and told me how I needed to focus on my chores at home and not school. I pleaded with my mom to stand up for me and got nothing, as usual. Later my mom came into my room after and said how she didn’t like how I always tried to turn her against him. The dagger was when she stood by and said she agreed with him. My mother had just told me she agreed with the man that just called me every disgusting name he could think of and belittled me and screamed in my face. That evening he gave me the ultimatum, his way or the highway. I was out that same night. I moved in with a friend and her family my senior year of high school. My parents moved across the country a couple of weeks later. I was a broken teenager emotionally alone with fresh battle wounds.

 

It was always the same pattern; the hurt and pain of violence, harsh words, or both, then later an apology and announcement of love for us. Always the same pattern, just a different day. We lived in such fear growing up and that fear turned into hatred, as it almost always does.

 

It terrified me when people would say that those who are abused become the abuser. I believe in free agency and I made the choice to walk a different path than the one my parents taught me. I refuse to allow their actions to because my crutch, my excuse. I went to work with children in a day care and later as a nanny; I was on a mission to right the wrongs in the world and wanted to care for children. I was determined to prove that I was better than they were; that I would be a better person, and I am.

 

As I grew older I really started to question the actions, or lack of actions, of my mother. I didn’t understand how she could allow a man into our lives and let him hurt us. From what I saw and heard, he never hit her and he never threatened her. They argued a lot, mostly about us kids, but from what I know she could have left. He didn’t work most of the time and she was the breadwinner. There was nothing we needed from him to make it on our own. I especially didn’t understand because we where there first, we were her responsibility to love and protect.

 

When I was pregnant with my baby girl I grew even more confused by my mother. I loved this little bump in my belly and it was a natural instinct to protect her. I drove safer, I gave up foods I loved, I refused to color my hair, and I took my vitamins everyday. In my everyday life I was obsessed with keeping my little baby safe in my belly.

 

Once Kennedy arrived my world changed. The mother in me was born that day, too. I would do anything for this precious baby of mine. I would lay down my life without a second thought to keep her safe. I would fight to protect her. She is my heart, my soul, my world, my life, my love. Maybe I feel so strongly about her because the lack of selfless love I was shown while growing up, but I don’t think it is. I think the motherly love I feel for my daughter is innate and it takes a lot for a mother to deny it.

 

Becoming a mother surprised me in a sort of way I had never expected, I felt even more hurt and confusion by my mother’s actions, or lack of actions, to protect us when we were children. Why didn’t she stand up for us? Why didn’t she stop him from hurting her children? Why did she choose him over us? Why does she pretend that nothing happened? Why are we supposed to pretend that everything was and is great?

 

All of these feelings of pain and anger have been inside of me, and I had never built the courage to address the issue. Any time anything close to the subject had arisen, it was shut down and the subject was changed. Everything had just built up and built up. My brothers and I would talk about our hurt and anger all the time with each other, but always too afraid of hurting our mother’s feelings to address anything.

 

Until now. It started with a random email. My mother’s brother had some health issues and was in the hospital so she messaged us on Facebook. The funny thing, which is actually really sad, is I don’t have a clue who her family is. I know my mom has a lot of brothers and sisters, and I could tell you a couple of their names, but I don’t know them. I couldn’t pick them out in a crowd, or even a small group. That is another day’s story…. Back to this one…. The email between my mom, my brothers, and I turned into something totally different. My brother mentioned something about his son, and it sort of snowballed. That gave me the courage to address the always-just-under-the-surface issues I have. No more hiding. No more pushing things under the rug. I wanted to answers.

 

Did I get them? Nope. I was told I was being disrespectful of my parents. Told my childhood wasn’t as hard as theirs. Told that I was browbeating them over “this”. I was told that I was apologized to (I wasn’t), and asked what more do I want? I was told that the past was in the past and it was up to me to change. Posts went up on Facebook about forgiving and letting go of the past and not using it against people. Questions went ignored.

 

I was never told why. Why did my mother always put herself and my step-dad before us? Why would she rather have that man in her bed than her children safe in their home? Why did she let him hurt us? Why didn’t she protect us? Why did she choose him over us? What didn’t she stand up for us? Why was it always about her? Why was she always the victim and not us? What did we do that made our step-dad hate us so much? Why did he hurt us?

 

It took me being 27 years old and having a family of my own to finally be able to ask the questions that have eaten away at me for so long. It did make me realize that I might not ever get answers, but I finally stood up for my brothers and myself and am holding my mother accountable. I came back feeling my integrity intact. There were never any phone calls, only text messages and emails. But I really wanted to scream and yell and cry. Instead I thought out each word and pleaded for answers. I know that I’m supposed to forgive, forget even, but I can’t yet. Maybe demanding answers and not forgetting makes me a lesser of a person, less Godlike. But I’m human, and I want to know the answers that have caused so many tears, sleepless night, and more pain that I can explain. She is still my mother, and I still love her. But I’ve recently realized that doesn’t mean I have to pretend things are okay when they are not.

 

Being a mother means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. Having a mother means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. But they don’t have to be the same thing. Everyone has a choice in who they want to be.

 

I made some bad choices right after high school. At 20 I married the wrong man, and experienced some really hard times… but that is a different story for a different time… I started to realize my worth and got the strength and courage to finally end that relationship and got divorced. I was stronger because of it. I didn’t care what others thought or what they said. I knew I had made the right decision and I was blessed for it.

 

Lucky for me, I had a second chance at love when I met my wonderful husband and prince charming. We dated for 2 years and sealed the deal. Not long after we were married the baby talk came up. 

 

I had always wanted to be a mother. I was taught how to be a good parent in a roundabout sort of way. I was taught what I didn’t want to do and I knew I wanted to be a super mom. So 6 months into our marriage we were thrilled and shocked to find out we were expecting. Although the first couple of weeks after finding out where scary and intense with a few bumps in the road, we were beyond blessed when our little girl was born.

 

Like I said before, the mother in me was born the day my little girl was. I feel that I’m a better mom because I know what it feels like to have parents that were not there for me. Kennedy is seriously my world. I don’t know how I lived without her and I think a piece of me would die if anything ever happened to her.

 

If I didn’t go through the abuse as a child, I don’t think the small things would matter as much to me as they do now. Yes, I’m a little obsessive with making sure my daughter gets birthday parties, that she’ll have sleepovers, and can do sports and activities growing up. I can’t wait to drive her around to places and drop and pick her up from her first job and dances and practices. Most of all, I hope that she never knows what it’s like to question her mother’s love for her.

Even now I know if my mom or her husband read this, the first thoughts would be how could I do this? How could I tell the world these deep dark secrets and paint them in such a picture?

It’s sad really. What could have gone so wrong in the life of a mother and a man who promised to assume the role of a father that they can turn away from those they covenanted to protect and nurture?

I know this story is one sided, and there are always two sides to every story, or in my case, both of my brothers, my mom’s, and my step-dad’s. But this is just a small portion of my story, my very real and painful story.

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