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I have always been captivated by meerkats. Their small, black eyes, rough, caramel-colored fur, and twitching whiskers intrigued me. They resemble a blend of a rodent and a cat, or perhaps a curious African guinea pig. However, it wasn’t their cuteness that first drew my attention; it was their burrows and tunnels. Meerkats excel at hiding, and on that sweltering summer day in 1992, all I yearned for was to join them underground, to disappear completely.
The reasons for my desire to hide are complex. My childhood was filled with hardships—an abusive upbringing, to put it mildly. My father frequently struck me, whether with his hand or, more often, his belt. My mother relentlessly belittled me, hurling insults that chipped away at my self-worth. By the age of 8, I felt utterly broken. I believed I was not smart or good enough, a disappointment in every sense. The urge to vanish became my escape, so I learned to stay quiet and hidden.
I built forts beneath my bed and concealed myself in the laundry hamper, surrounded by dirty clothes. Days before my ninth birthday, I attempted to run away. I tried again at twelve, but each time I failed. After my father’s death shortly before Thanksgiving, my situation deteriorated. My mother transformed from a sweet presence into a constant source of rage, lobbing insults at me daily. I continued to hide until I turned 18 and could finally leave her home.
Though my mother never physically harmed me, her words cut deeper than any blow. For years, I hoped for a moment of reconciliation—an epiphany that would allow us to heal and become a family once again. We shared some positive moments; in 2005, I took her to Las Vegas for what I hoped would be a bonding trip. We laughed and shared drinks, and she even cried tears of pride when I became a mother myself. But real peace with my past only came after her death due to alcoholism last June.
When I discovered her lifeless body, clinging to consciousness, I felt a whirlwind of emotions. I understood that her abusive behavior stemmed from untreated mental illness and addiction, and while I felt sympathy for her struggles, the pain she inflicted on me was profound. Her inability to fight her demons left me grappling with years of trauma. Upon her passing, I experienced an unexpected sense of relief—it was finally over.
However, that relief was short-lived. As weeks passed, anger surfaced, bringing with it a wave of memories and immobilizing pain. I longed to retreat into hiding once more. Instead, I committed to working with my therapist and psychiatrist to unravel the damage she caused. I learned to care for myself in ways she never could. After 13 months of hard work and emotional turmoil, I’ve reached a place of acceptance and inner peace regarding my mother, albeit posthumously.
Let me be clear: I haven’t forgiven her as one might expect. I still hear her hurtful words echo in my mind—words that labeled me as foolish, worthless, and a mistake. I haven’t visited her grave, and I’m uncertain if I ever will. Yet, I found a sense of closure by writing to her, expressing how her actions affected me. I laid my feelings bare, seeking to heal the long-standing wounds that had plagued me for 37 years.
Was this journey easy? Not at all. Confronting the anger and sadness felt more comfortable at times. Yet, acknowledging my past became the essential first step to moving forward, allowing me to embrace my present and shape my future.
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Summary
The author reflects on a tumultuous relationship with an abusive mother and the complex emotions following her death. Through therapy and self-discovery, they find a path to peace without traditional forgiveness, ultimately seeking closure from a painful past.
Keyphrase: Closure with Abusive Mother
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