I hate Mother's Day

TRIGGER WARNING: 

Sexual Abuse, Narcissistic Abuse,  Self-Harm

To make this clear: I don't hate moms. I don't hate friends or people who are moms. I don't begrudge moms this day of celebration. (I do hope you're celebrating your mom randomly and not just one day a year. 😐)

I just hate dealing with this holiday. I hate the reminders it brings up. I hate that this day is always a bad brain day, even with medications. I hate that I have to escape these four walls and go somewhere that I can wander and just forget. I hate that I feel so trapped in my mind and my body that the battle for self-harm is a constant torment in my mind. I hate that by the end of this day, I'm so exhausted but I can't sleep because the night terrors are real and alive. I hate that this is one of my trigger days, even with therapy. I've just learned to try and cope with it a little better.

THE PAST

We sat inside the Red Robin, finishing our meal, small talk catching up. It had been several months since I went low to no contact. It was after my first counseling sessions, my attempt to communicate, reconcile and discuss boundaries that would allow me relationship but within a safe setting. My two best friends were sitting in the same restaurant making sure that I was safe, including a signal if I needed someone to intervene.

I told her what happened. Watching my dad fondle her in front of me, then looking at me and telling me that this is what to expect when I get married. Having him finger fuck her while looking at me, making me watch. Constantly being told that I needed to apologize for him yelling at me. Having to keep the peace and keep the secrets and lies. The sexual abuse when dad would tell me that he wished I was his wife. The time he snuck to my window, and the reason why I hate the fucking song, "Neon Moon". Because that was the song that was playing. I poured as much as I could out, tears choking, desperately wanting some kind of validation.

I instead got, "I always wondered how that would affect you."

My mind went blank. I just sat there, shocked. Because she knew the whole time. The. Whole. Fucking. Time.

And she did nothing about it. I was allowed to be sexually abused. My mother allowed me to be sexually abused.

I excused myself and immediately went to the bathroom and vomited. After I came back to the table, I paid, took her back to my brother's house and knew that that was going to be the last time I saw her.

My mother knew about the sexual abuse. And instead of stopping it, protecting me, she was not only allowing it, she was a participant.

I drove back home and made myself vomit over and over again in the shower. I scrubbed my skin raw so I could try and stop the pain. I had to bottle the rage - letting it out wasn't an option. I learned to become good at hiding the harm I did to myself. I dove deeper into the addiction of food. And I said goodbye to a relationship I could no longer have or be a part of.

Mothers are supposed to protect their babies, not be a part of what breaks them.

Fast forward to 2020, when I began my first round of EMDR to deal with the physical and sexual abuse I had received from my father, mother and uncle. Two uncles if you count the psychopath that was younger than me. I hadn't been in contact with my parents since I was 26/27ish. That last revelation was the final straw. I knew that I wasn't safe and that the boundaries needed to be maintained, no matter the pain.

As I began to heal, various family members would Facebook message me and tell me that the lack of relationship with my parents was my fault. That I needed to go back and allow them into my life because THEY wanted a relationship with me. Never a mention on how I had offered that relationship, stating the boundaries that I needed in order to continue that relationship, and instead was told, "Are you fucking kidding me? I can talk to you however god-damned I want. I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it. Etc" And of course my favorite one, "You have to forgive. I thought you were a Christian."

One day, I opened up my messenger and saw that my mother messaged. Here are the screenshots that I sent to my counselor. Waking up to this was a barrel of fun. 😐

I got these the morning that hubs and I had planned a before work breakfast date. That was a great eating disorder day. 🤢 I forwarded them to my counselor and told her that I was finally ready to talk about my mom.

I learned some new terminology that session.

Narcissistic Abuse

I heard the word. But I didn't really know that was a thing. I didn't equate that to this scenario. My counselor put a label and then explained what it meant. Tears ran down my face as I collapsed on her floor. Because I thought it was my fault. I was an awful human being for wanting, needing, to keep those boundaries in place. Time and time again I kept questioning if I should reach out and make contact. I talked back and forth with hubs on it. But I never received peace about reinstating that relationship.

And to finally have a meaning, a reason, behind that gut intuition. I collapsed in relief because it was no longer all in my head. I was validated with actual physical proof. And I knew that I had done the right thing.

THE PRESENT

Mother's Day is bittersweet. I love that I can celebrate what amazing mothers my friends are. I am grateful when I am allowed to love on their kids because I can't have my own-the damage sustained was too much. I love being able to affirm them as someone seeing from the outside in. But I hate that I can no longer say that of my own mother. I grieve for what was done to that teenager sitting on the couch, frozen, desperately trying not to get sick as she was violated. I grieve for the little girl that couldn't understand why. I grieve that I wasn't good enough, important enough, to deserve protection from the monsters within. I rage because I still don't understand why it was my job to say yes to the abuse, even when I desperately screamed no each time. I grieve because I have been told by those that should be family, that I deserve this lack of relationship. I don't deserve boundaries or being safe. 

When someone tells me that I should forgive and forget and welcome them back into my life... do you actually know what you're telling me?

You're telling me that I deserved the abuse. You're telling me that I should welcome back the abuse with open arms. You're telling me that I don't have a right to feel safe in that parental relationship. You're telling me that I HAVE to accept the abuse, because staying in contact is far more important than my actual safety, mental well-being. You're telling me that I should die because the thought of going back brings waves of panic, fear, darkness and a desire to self harm.

I've come too far in this healing journey to allow the opinions of others to sway me. I'm choosing myself. I deserve to feel safe, loved and whole. I deserve to live in an environment of peace. I deserve to celebrate some of the most amazing mothers in my life without bitterness and anger. I deserve to not feel the pain I've felt for so long.

It's okay to let go of this relationship. I've been no contact for 12 very long years. I still grieve. It's still really hard for me. But I also feel peace. And I won't be going back.