It took me three decades to finally acknowledge my experience as emotional abuse. Even now, I find myself revisiting the definition of “emotional abuse,” scrutinizing the words repeatedly, questioning if I have the right to label my past in such a way. According to the Mayo Clinic, “Emotional child abuse refers to harming a child’s self-esteem or emotional wellness.” This includes verbal and emotional assaults—such as constant belittling or berating a child—along with isolating, ignoring, or rejecting a child. These were the very experiences inflicted upon my brother and me by our stepmother.
She entered our lives when I was just nine years old, and my brother was four. We were typical children—making messes, experiencing emotional outbursts, seeking comfort, and occasionally acting out. Unfortunately, she struggled to manage the realities of raising us and directed her frustrations towards us.
Her behavior was relentless. She would call us hurtful names, ridicule us, and belittle our feelings. There were times when she would storm out of the house for hours or days over minor incidents, leaving us feeling abandoned. She would hurl everyday items at us in fits of rage, threaten to make us sleep in the car, or even suggest we live elsewhere. Our need for affection and comfort was met with mockery, and she often criticized our mother for being too nurturing, claiming we lacked proper manners.
Perhaps the most painful aspect of this ordeal was my father’s inability to stand up for us. While he made attempts to mediate, he often found himself caught in the crossfire, trying to please both us and her. He would tell us we needed to give her a chance and dismiss her outbursts as just bad days. But as children, we needed more than that—protection from the anger and hostility that seemed ever-present in our home. We craved a sense of safety from the one person who was supposed to love us unconditionally.
Years later, during my teenage years, my mother moved us across the country, making visits to our father and stepmother less frequent. However, whenever we did visit, the same patterns emerged. The hurtful behavior was always lurking just beneath the surface, ready to erupt again. Even as an adult, the toxic environment persisted, and it was painful for my husband to witness. His observations validated my experiences, confirming that the abuse was real and damaging.
Although there were moments of her being “on better behavior,” the underlying toxicity remained, sometimes revealing itself during visits with my children. Thankfully, her rage was directed at me, serving as a stark reminder of the past. In my teenage years, I developed a panic disorder, initially sparked by a fear of flying—a fear tied directly to visits with them. Over the years, I experienced numerous panic attacks, often triggered by the thought of re-entering that abusive environment.
For a long time, I didn’t connect these episodes to my childhood experiences. I believed my anxiety was simply part of who I was, a trait passed down through my family. However, I now see that the panic attacks closely followed the abuse that began when I was ten. Realizing this connection was a significant breakthrough; I understood that I could no longer maintain a relationship with my stepmother or my father in the same way. Approaching 40, with a loving husband and three children, I realized that the toxic dynamics had to change.
I find myself wrestling with the definitions of abuse, oscillating between believing and doubting my experiences. This self-doubt is a hallmark of the cycle of abuse, fueled by the gaslighting and manipulation from the abuser. The words my stepmother used to describe me—the “psycho,” the “loser,” the “attention-seeker”—echo in my mind, making it difficult to shake the belief that perhaps I was at fault all along.
It’s a dreadful situation. I am still navigating how to maintain a relationship with my father, whom I love dearly, despite the pain inflicted by my stepmother. Yet, I recognize that I deserve to be in a healthier environment, free from the toxicity that has characterized my past. The scars of emotional abuse will likely always be a part of me, and I may carry the pain for years to come. But I refuse to be solely labeled as a victim; I am also a survivor. I possess a strength that I am only beginning to understand, and if you have experienced similar trauma, I want you to know that you are also stronger than you realize.
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In summary, the journey of healing from emotional abuse is complex and often fraught with challenges. Acknowledging the impact of such experiences is the first step toward reclaiming one’s narrative and finding strength in survival.