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By Emily Taylor
March 4, 2021
Trigger Warning: Child Abuse
I was frequently reminded of how fortunate I was to have a family with both parents. My mother’s upbringing was marred by her own parents’ divorce, and this left a lasting impact on her. Many of my friends came from single-parent or blended families and often expressed envy over how “normal” my family appeared.
“You’re so lucky. I would have done anything for my parents to stay together.”
“I dread having to see my dad only on weekends. You’re fortunate he lives with you all the time.”
“I wish my parents loved each other like your mom and dad do. You are so lucky.”
If I was so fortunate, why did I feel so profoundly unhappy? People only perceived what we chose to show them. In my mother’s case, she only acknowledged what she wished to see. She had constructed a family with two parents and vowed never to repeat her own parents’ mistakes. Yet, history tragically repeated itself.
My parents were caught in a toxic relationship. Both had abusive childhoods, which they often used to justify their harmful behaviors. In their view, because they had endured difficulties, they felt no obligation to spare others, including their children, from suffering.
On the surface, we appeared to be a loving family. My parents were outgoing and social, leading others to mistakenly equate their sociability with happiness and fulfillment. My father was an entertainer at heart, always making jokes and brightening the day of those around him. My friends found him hilarious, and many looked to him as a model father figure since their own dads were absent or uninvolved.
My mother, on the other hand, was charming and emotionally expressive. She lavished attention and compliments on others, always ready to help anyone in need. She encouraged my friends to call her “mom.”
However, this warmth did not extend to us, their own children. My father largely ignored me, considering me too sensitive and quiet. He favored my younger sister, who was more of a tomboy and, in his eyes, the son he never had. I often questioned whether he was truly my dad, given the lack of attention I received compared to my sister. But our resemblance made that impossible to deny, leading me to accept the painful truth: my father simply didn’t care for me.
My mother treated me as if I were a friend or a therapist. Her nurturing demeanor was a facade; she never offered the true nurturing a mother should provide. Instead, I became her emotional caretaker, responsible for managing her feelings and interpersonal issues. If I failed to meet her expectations, I faced punishment. She would lash out unexpectedly, and I lived in fear of her temper. Cruel remarks about my personality and appearance were common, and she often lamented that motherhood had stifled her potential. She would even threaten to leave, saying she might not be around when I returned from school.
I never turned to my father for protection; I knew I didn’t matter to him.
Although I had all my basic needs met, I felt a profound sense of neglect. This guilt was compounded by the constant reminders of how lucky I was to have such a wonderful family. Since everyone adored my parents, I concluded that the problem lay with me. I wasn’t good enough, and that was why they treated those outside our family with more kindness. I tried harder to earn their affection, but it was never sufficient.
As an adult, I now see that the issue was never me. I felt neglected because I was emotionally overlooked by my parents, who skillfully crafted an illusion of a perfect family. Their neglect allowed all three of their children to be victims of abuse by extended family members. While they may not have comprehended the full extent of it, they knew enough to take action. Yet their mindset of “I’ve had a difficult life” clouded every judgment they made, leaving no room for empathy towards others. Consequently, their children suffered unnecessarily.
I’m certain both of my parents had vowed to break the cycle. My father didn’t want to be unloving like his own father, who favored his sister. My mother sought to avoid a fractured marriage like her parents had. Yet, she often used me as a sounding board for her grievances about my father, mirroring her own mother’s behavior.
Rather than striving to change their patterns, they focused entirely on maintaining the facade of the perfect parents.
When it came time for me to start my own family, I had a lot of soul-searching to do. I realized that family isn’t solely defined by blood or shared interests. It involves learning from the past rather than ignoring it out of shame. It’s about being truthful about learned behaviors and acknowledging that you might repeat the mistakes of your upbringing. It involves taking responsibility and not using your history as a justification for any harm you inflict on your children. Most importantly, it requires the commitment to choose a different path every single day.
Now, as a mother, I am acutely aware of the patterns that run through the women in my family. I plan to have more children and remain vigilant about the tendency to favor certain kids over others. I also recognize the inclination to prioritize appearances over deeper issues. Unfortunately, I have developed anxiety about others’ perceptions of me. I fear social judgment and crave acceptance, but I am determined that this will not come at the expense of my family.
There are many toxic patterns in my lineage, and I’m unsure if I’ll ever completely unlearn them. Although I managed to distance myself from my family, I cannot fully escape the blueprint they provided for my future relationships. All I can do is work diligently on myself and take responsibility for any negative behaviors I have inherited. The cycle ends with me.
What differentiates me from my family is my acknowledgment that the family I have created isn’t perfect, and I am completely fine with that. I understand I won’t always get everything right, and I find peace in that. What truly matters is that we love each other and are committed to being the best versions of ourselves to foster healthy relationships. Family is about effort, learning from missteps, and trying again.
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Summary:
This article explores the author’s journey of growing up in a family that appeared perfect on the outside but was fraught with emotional neglect and abuse. The author reflects on the facade created by her parents, their toxic relationship, and how it impacted her. Now, as a mother, she is determined to break the cycle of dysfunction, focusing on honesty, love, and growth within her family, despite acknowledging that imperfection is part of the journey.