Growing up, my mom became abusive. Verbally and emotionally, she destroyed mostly me but also my siblings, in varying amounts. She abused her romantic partners. She abused her mom. I had hoped she would grow out of it.
I hadn’t lived with my mom in four and a half years, and then in October I had no choice but to move back in with her when I quit my job. The speed with which she returned to her verbal abuse towards me astounded me. Here I am, twenty-five, getting ripped apart by the person who’s supposed to love you the most. Gosh.
My friends who know always tell me that what she’s saying isn’t true, that it’s not me and that she would just find something to be angry about anyway even if I did everything she wanted all the time. And while I understand that on some level, it still hurts when my mom says the awful things she says about me. I wish she could see what she’s doing and stop. Or maybe she knows and doesn’t care.
Something I’m trying to remember is that her words don’t dictate who I am. Her opinions are not the end all, be all of me. Some days this is a more difficult task, but I know I need to get it deep into my brain so I don’t let her ruin every single day that I have to live here.
For now, I do have to live here. I don’t have the means to live somewhere else. But someday, I know I will be able to leave again, and this time for good. I will not let her hurt me forever. My children, should I ever have some, will not be exposed to her toxicity. And I will heal, even if the wounds are deep and covered with many layers of bandages. I will heal.