My siblings and I often reminisce about our childhood. In many respects, those years were filled with joy. Our family was comfortably middle-class; my father earned a decent income that ensured we weren’t affluent but also didn’t go without.
However, our lifestyle was distinct from that of our peers. While other mothers would happily invite friends over for spontaneous playdates, providing cookies and milk, our mother struggled to manage any disruption to our routine. Visits had to be scheduled in advance, complete with rules and time limits. Once our friends departed, it was imperative that we quickly restore order to the home, which had been momentarily disrupted by the presence of a few extra children.
This pattern continues even with our own children.
My parents are still together, having celebrated their fiftieth anniversary this year. They genuinely seem happy and enjoy each other’s company. Yet, we recognize that my father is nothing short of a saint. My mother, a loving woman who adores her family, has always battled severe anxiety and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder throughout her life. She has lived enveloped in a protective bubble — a bubble that her husband and daughters have inadvertently reinforced by tiptoeing around her anxieties.
Our mother found it hard to manage mess, noise, or chaos. As we grew older, her need for control intensified. This had a profound impact on my ability to form friendships. The years that should have been filled with independence and carefree summer days often felt like walking a tightrope. I actively discouraged friends from visiting, fearing the chaos it would bring.
Soon, I found myself with only a few friends and became the target of constant bullying. Despite excelling academically, I dropped out of school at 17 to escape the daily torment. Within a year, I met my first husband, a man whose coercive and controlling behavior ultimately stripped me of my identity, leaving me a fragile shell of my former self. I appeared to have everything together on the outside, yet inside, I was battling to survive.
As the eldest daughter, I was always worried about my mother’s well-being. She was perpetually on edge, taking medication for her anxiety during my teenage years. She believed we were in constant danger and frequently lectured us, especially me, about the risks of drinking, relationships, and drugs. When AIDS first became prominent in the media in the early eighties, she became convinced that one of us would contract it. I lived in fear of making a mistake that could push her over the edge.
Although I knew my mother loved me, I never felt that love. I often felt like the adult in our relationship, responsible for ensuring the stove was off or the doors were locked. My high school counselor even intervened after noticing my panicked requests to call home, convinced I had left something dangerous on.
When I faced humiliation at school or in social situations, my mother was the last person I could turn to. I adapted to processing my pain in isolation.
I longed to escape home. My mother’s constant anxiety seeped into my own life, creating a pressing desire to leave, yet I lacked the confidence to stand on my own. I craved love but felt unworthy of it. I was simply exhausted from living under her conditions, steering clear of her triggers, and avoiding her anxious outbursts. I yearned for someone to rescue me.
By the time I moved in with my future husband at twenty, I had mastered the art of walking on eggshells.
Five years after breaking free from a cycle of domestic abuse, I’m still healing. I often reflect on why I accepted such treatment. I trace the warning signs back to our first date, where I passively allowed him to make all the decisions. Before I knew it, I was diminishing myself to elevate him, casting aside my dreams of travel and writing, convinced that love was enough.
I willingly made my world smaller to accommodate him, leading to over two decades of escalating abuse driven by his need to control my life. I sacrificed my own existence to avoid any repercussions of making a mistake, just as I had with my mother.
My mother’s attempts to control our lives, though rooted in fear, had consequences similar to those of my ex-husband’s controlling behavior, which stemmed from his own insecurities. Recognizing this, I see that surrendering my autonomy to others is a challenging struggle to reverse.
I still love my mother, who has mental health issues she never fully addressed. For a long time, I resented her, but after navigating my own challenging journey through motherhood, I’ve come to understand her better. I forgive her, yet accepting poor treatment cost me a significant part of my life. I’m still learning to forgive myself.
If you’re interested in topics of home insemination, check out this other blog post for more insights. Additionally, for authoritative information on artificial insemination, visit Make a Mom. For those considering intrauterine insemination, Cleveland Clinic offers excellent resources.
Search Queries
- How childhood affects adult relationships
- Signs of emotional abuse in relationships
- Coping with an anxious parent
- Understanding coercive control
- Healing from domestic abuse
In conclusion, my upbringing, while filled with love, also set the stage for a cycle of control and abuse in my adult life. It’s a journey of understanding, healing, and ultimately reclaiming my autonomy.