My siblings and I often look back at our upbringing. In many respects, those years were delightful. Our family belonged to the middle class. My father earned a decent income, so while we never had excess, we were never deprived either.
However, our lifestyle set us apart from our peers. While other mothers would effortlessly host impromptu playdates with snacks and treats, our mother struggled with any disruption to our routine. Visits to our home required prior arrangements, complete with rules and time constraints. Once our friends departed, it was time to clean up, restoring the order that had been disrupted by a few extra children.
This pattern persists even now with our own children.
My parents are still together and celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary this year. They genuinely appear to be happy and enjoy each other’s company. Yet, we recognize that my father is a remarkable figure. My mother, though loving and devoted to her family, has always grappled with anxiety and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder throughout her adult life. She has navigated her world in a protective bubble, created by her husband and daughters who have tiptoed around her for years.
Our mother could not handle chaos, noise, or clutter. As we matured, her need for control tightened its grip. This had a profound effect on my social life. The years that should have been filled with freedom and joyful summer days instead resembled a constant balancing act. Casual visits became rare, and I often tried to dissuade friends from coming over.
Soon, I found myself with only a few friends, becoming a target for relentless bullying.
Despite being a high-achieving student, I dropped out of school at 17 to escape daily torment. Within a year, I met my first husband, a man who would gradually manipulate and dominate me until I became a hollowed-out version of myself. To the outside world, I appeared composed, but internally, I was fighting for survival.
As the oldest sibling, I often felt the weight of responsibility. From a young age, I worried about my mother, who was frequently on edge. I recall her taking medication during my early teenage years, likely becoming dependent on it. She believed we were perpetually at risk and often lectured me, as the eldest, about the dangers of drinking, relationships, and drugs. When AIDS became a topic of concern in the media, she feared one of us would contract it. I lived with the constant anxiety of making a wrong move that could trigger her breakdown.
I didn’t feel loved by her, even though I knew she cared. I felt more like the adult in our relationship, often responsible for checking that the stove was off, the front door locked, and that the iron wasn’t left on. The list was endless.
This anxiety followed me into high school, where I was called to see the school counselor due to my frequent panicked requests to call home. I was convinced I had left my curling iron on and that it would lead to disaster. When I experienced humiliation at a party or faced rejection from a boyfriend, my mother was the last person I could confide in.
I became accustomed to processing my pain in solitude.
I longed to escape my home environment. My mother’s constant anxiety created a similar unease within me. I was eager to move out but lacked confidence in my ability to thrive independently. I yearned for love but felt unworthy of it. All I knew was that I was tired of living under my mother’s restrictions and navigating her triggers. I craved someone to whisk me away.
By the time I moved in with my future husband at twenty, I had mastered the art of walking on eggshells.
Years later, after breaking free from a long-term abusive relationship, I still find myself in recovery. I often reflect on why I accepted such treatment. I trace the initial warning signs back to the very first date. Immediately, I stepped back, allowing him to make decisions and dictate our activities. Gradually, I diminished myself to elevate him. All my aspirations faded away. Who needed to travel or explore when I was in love?
For reasons I cannot articulate, I willingly shrank my world to fit his. This led to over twenty years of escalating abuse, fueled by his insatiable need for control. I sacrificed my own happiness to evade the repercussions of any misstep.
Just like I did with my mother.
Her control stemmed from a place of fear; unlike my ex-husband, whose actions were rooted in insecurity and arrogance. Despite her good intentions, the consequences were the same. Once you relinquish control over your choices and beliefs to another person, reclaiming your autonomy becomes an arduous journey.
I still care for her. She is a loving mother with unresolved mental health challenges. For years, I harbored resentment towards her. However, after navigating my own struggles with motherhood, I have come to understand her better. I now forgive her.
Accepting poor treatment cost me invaluable years of my life, and I continue to work on forgiving myself.
This article first appeared on Medium. If you’re interested, check out this other blog post for more insights.
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In summary, my childhood experiences significantly shaped my vulnerability to an abusive relationship. The need for control, stemming from my mother’s anxiety, translated into my adult life, where I accepted poor treatment from partners. Through self-reflection and understanding, I continue to heal from these early influences.