My siblings and I often reminisce about our early years. While there were many joyful moments, our family’s middle-class status set us apart from our peers. My father earned a good living, providing for us comfortably, but we were not affluent.
Unlike other kids whose mothers would cheerfully agree to spontaneous playdates, our mother preferred strict routines. Visits had to be prearranged with specific guidelines, and once our guests left, it was time to restore order to our home, which often felt like a chore rather than a fun gathering. This same pattern continues with my own children today.
My parents, still together and celebrating their fiftieth anniversary, appear genuinely happy. However, we recognize that my father is a saint, while my mother, though loving and devoted, has struggled with anxiety and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder throughout her life. She has been enveloped in a protective bubble that her family has inadvertently created by always walking on eggshells around her.
As children, we learned that chaos was unacceptable. Our mother’s intolerance for mess or noise grew stronger over time, greatly affecting my social life. Instead of enjoying carefree childhood experiences, I found myself avoiding inviting friends over. As a result, I eventually had only a few close friends and became a target for bullying. Despite being academically successful, I dropped out of school at seventeen to escape the daily anxiety.
It wasn’t long before I met my first husband, a man who gradually manipulated and controlled me, turning me into a shadow of my former self. I appeared composed on the outside, yet inside, I was struggling desperately.
From a young age, I felt a heavy burden of responsibility for my mother’s well-being. She often relied on medication and lived in constant fear of potential dangers, instilling in me a deep-seated anxiety about making mistakes. I worried that any wrong move could push her over the edge. Though I knew she loved me, I rarely felt that love. Instead, I often took on the role of the caretaker, constantly checking that everything was in order at home.
My anxiety escalated during high school, where I was frequently called to the counselor’s office due to my obsessive fears about leaving appliances on. As I faced challenges like public humiliation or heartbreak, my mother was the last person I could turn to for support. Instead, I learned to cope with my pain in solitude.
The thought of escaping my childhood home consumed me, but I lacked the confidence to live independently. I yearned for love but felt unworthy of it. By the time I moved in with my future husband at twenty, I had mastered the art of tiptoeing around others’ needs.
Five years after breaking free from an abusive relationship, I still grapple with understanding why I accepted such treatment. I now realize that from the very first date, I had relinquished control, allowing him to dictate the course of our relationship. I compromised my dreams and desires, convincing myself that having someone who loved me was enough.
This cycle of surrendering autonomy followed a pattern established early in my life. My mother’s attempts to control our environment stemmed from fear, unlike my ex-husband’s manipulation, which was rooted in insecurity. Yet, both resulted in a loss of agency.
Despite my complicated feelings, I still love my mother, recognizing her struggles with mental health. I have learned to forgive her, as I now understand the challenges of motherhood. Ultimately, accepting poor treatment has cost me years of my life, and I continue to work on forgiving myself.
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