My mother introduced me to reading before I turned four and guided me in writing by the time I was five. During my early school years, when I struggled with spelling, she would quiz me in our retro kitchen. I remember sitting on the cool, avocado-green linoleum while she read from a list of words placed near the electric stove or the kitchen sink. We shared moments of coloring, dressing up, and even putting on little performances. As a child, I literally walked in her shoes. However, I have no desire to emulate her, now or ever, because those cherished memories are merely illusions — they distort the reality of who she truly was.
My mother, born in the same year as “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy, was a complex and troubled woman. She battled her own demons, grappling with anger and unhealthy habits. Alcohol became her refuge, a way to escape her sorrows and emotions. She spent what little money she had on cheap beer and low-quality liquor. Alongside this struggle, she faced mental health challenges that went undiagnosed and untreated for years.
Self-care was not on her agenda. She often slept throughout the day and night, neglecting our home, which was engulfed in layers of dust and clutter. Bugs invaded our kitchen, and the state of our living space was a clear reflection of her disregard. By my thirteenth birthday, I found myself taking on the responsibilities of raising my younger brother — handling meals, cleaning, and trying to make ends meet long before I even attended high school dances.
The key reason I refuse to be like my mother is the shadow of abuse that loomed over our lives. Despite a handful of seemingly “golden” moments, she was often cold, cruel, and manipulative. While she might not have physically harmed me, the emotional scars she left run deep.
Her daily tirades chipped away at my self-worth. I heard her harsh words frequently, labeling me as stupid and worthless. By the time I turned ten, I had already internalized the notion that I was a failure. By thirteen, I was convinced I was just a “problem child.” Even now, at nearly 37, I still grapple with those feelings, but I am determined to change the narrative. I am committed to breaking the cycle of darkness and despair.
That journey is not without its challenges. When I feel overwhelmed or reach a breaking point, my mother’s voice echoes in my mind, and I find myself channeling her anger. Yet, my children deserve better. They deserve to grow up in a nurturing environment, and so do I. This is why I attend therapy weekly and meet with my psychiatrist biweekly. I practice mindfulness and rely on medication to manage my mental health.
I focus on self-care through healthy habits, including regular exercise and balanced eating. Unlike my mother, I prioritize my well-being and actively seek joy in the little things. I am committed to breaking the cycle of pain and suffering.
I also make it a point to apologize when I falter. If I lose my temper or struggle to be present, I acknowledge it to my children and explain that my emotions are my own, not theirs to bear.
Does this mean I have completely succeeded? The answer is both yes and no. There are days when I stumble, and the weight of anger or sadness feels heavy. But my children will never carry the burden of my struggles. They will know their worth and value, which is the legacy I aim to leave as a parent.
For more insights on similar topics, check out this article on home insemination or learn about artificial insemination kits. If you’re curious about the IVF process, this is an excellent resource to understand it better: What the IVF Process is Really Like.
Probable Search Queries:
- How to break the cycle of abuse in parenting
- Self-care tips for new mothers
- Managing mental health after childhood trauma
- Understanding emotional abuse and its effects
- Resources for overcoming a difficult upbringing
In summary, I strive to become the woman my mother never was — a nurturing and loving figure for my children, actively breaking the cycle of pain and ensuring they know their value and worth.