MY MOTHER, BROTHERS, AND ME: IT'S ALL OVER NOW

  

It’s the 2023 Christmas season, and I can’t help but have flashbacks of my childhood—a childhood filled with very few fond memories. 

 

I was the middle child and the only girl in a family that never should have existed. My father was a bully and physically abusive, doling out punishment with a belt for the slightest infraction of whatever rules he deemed we disregarded. It could even be a look I gave him, which would be met with the heel of his shoe slammed in my face.  I developed the art of dissociation while I was being hit repeatedly.  I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he was hurting me, and my mind went elsewhere.  Rather than stop, he continued until he became too tired to flail at me. During my teen years, I constantly imagined being beautiful and happy while living a different life with a loving family. Dissociation saved me.

 

My mother silently sat by while this abuse was happening and never comforted any of us after the beatings.  She later explained that she was afraid she’d be hit, too.  It was obvious to me, even as a little girl, that my mother hated having children.  She repeatedly told the story that she left home at age 17 after she discovered that my grandmother was pregnant because she didn’t want to “raise another brat.”  She met my father shortly after moving into my great uncle’s home, married him three weeks after they first said “hello,” and had my brother ten months later.  Oh, what timing she had!

 

My mother regarded me as her sounding board for constant complaints about my father.  She hated him, yet given the opportunity to leave after she started working when I was 10, she chose to stay…and complain.  I thought if I’d listen long enough, she’d love me. Instead, when I did anything that didn’t please her, she’d accuse me of being “just like your father,” a man she hated.  She frequently referred to me as self-centered, which is a shining example of projection.

 

After I left home, I continued with magical thinking.  If I worked hard enough and graduated from college with three degrees, they’d be proud of me and love me.  I don’t remember any acknowledgment of my accomplishments, even though they never helped with tuition or other expenses during college.  Oh wait, my father gave me a used company car my junior year in college after I pleaded for help because I was going to school during the day and working nights in a psychiatric hospital.  My old, beat-up VW Beetle finally bit the dust, and I needed a car for work and school. One weekend, I had no money left for groceries after paying tuition, buying gas, and paying rent.  After not eating for a few days, I begged them for help.  They put $25 in my bank account, and I ate bologna sandwiches for two weeks with their manna from heaven.  So, a car and $25…they at least did something!

 

My parents would make fun of me for my weight and appearance.  According to my father, the house shook when I walked, and my face looked like hamburger meat.  I was 20 pounds overweight and had acne.  It was shortly after his making fun of me that I tried to commit suicide at age 14 by taking 80 aspirin.  My mother angrily commented that I only did that to get attention.  The truth is that I was in tremendous pain, lost hope for anything better, and thought I would go to sleep and never wake up.  I did not know that aspirin contained caffeine, which made me dizzy and wide awake.

My siblings and I have struggled with addictions.  I have battled a food addiction forever.  Eating helps soothe me and fills the emptiness I feel at times.  My older brother is a heavy drinker/alcoholic who feels superior by attending church and constantly bragging about accomplishments that are likely untrue.  My younger brother has been addicted to cocaine, pain pills, and marijuana, although I believe he's limited his drug of choice to marijuana now.  Since he probably no longer even pretends to work, perhaps he has found other forms of escape, and it won't be through his children or grandchildren, as he alienated them many years ago.

 

It's puzzling why I would continue trying to have a relationship with my family of origin after I left home.  My aunt and a couple of my lifelong friends haven't understood why I didn't sever ties with them much earlier.  However, I would dutifully visit them twice a year and many holidays with a new husband or a new body to show off, thinking that maybe they would finally love me since I looked better and someone “chose” me.  Even when I became drastically underweight, they did not comment.

 

I was determined never to be mistreated again by anyone after I left home.  The slightest sign that a partner wasn’t 100% in my corner resulted in me terminating the relationship.  Yet, I would start feeling lonely and seek a new partner.  There have been far too many failed relationships in my adult life, but I know it stems from being emotionally neglected and physically abused as a child.  There are some things one can never overcome.  However, the loneliness has subsided for years, and I’m not at risk of falling for anyone just because I’m alone.

 

Several years ago, my mother accused me of posting on Facebook that she physically abused me.  I’ve never written anything about my childhood trauma on Facebook, although my first book contains those sordid details from long ago. I never thought or wrote that my mother was physically abusive; however, I should clarify that she was certainly emotionally abusive.  I kept calling her and defending myself, but she wouldn’t believe me and would hang up.  Finally, I stopped calling.  After many months, she wrote a letter to apologize for falsely accusing me and to tell me she regretted not being the mother I deserved.  She asked if I would act like we were friends at family gatherings.  My response was that while she was my mother and I loved her, I would no longer tolerate her rolling her eyes when I spoke and saying nasty things about me to other people and under her breath when I was around.  I didn’t accept that behavior from so-called friends, and I wouldn’t from her.

 

After that interchange, I started traveling to see her once a month again.  Being with her has always been like walking on eggshells or hearing fingernails scrape across a chalkboard.  She never stopped feeling sorry for herself and would constantly talk about how she was mistreated by my father and the man she married shortly after my father died. Being around someone continually complaining while trying to change the subject is exhausting. On one of my last times with her, I changed the subject by suggesting that we share what made us grateful.  I shared that I was grateful for the health and happiness of those I loved.  She responded, "I am grateful that I look this good at my age (92)." I dreaded spending time with her, yet I felt obligated.  She was my mother, after all.  I knew she didn’t like me, nor did I like her.

 

My younger brother, who never successfully finished anything and never kept a job for long, suddenly decided to move to Temple a few years ago.  When I asked him if he was moving there to get Mother’s assets, he responded affirmatively and quit talking to me.  Two years after his move, he called me from his car phone with my mother present to ask if she had told me she was leaving all her assets to him.  I responded that she hadn’t, but she had a right to do whatever she wished with her assets.  My brothers had already met with the attorney and gathered with their families at my mother’s house to take whatever they wanted.  After deciding everything without my input or presence, I was asked to participate in a conference call with the attorney.  I knew the phone call would trigger me, so my uncle, a retired banker, agreed to participate in my place.  I feared my brothers would quickly spend her money, leaving her nothing.  According to my brother, my uncle never answered the call.  An accusation that my uncle denies.  On the day my mother was admitted to an assisted living facility and with a power of attorney in his hands, my manipulative, loser younger brother withdrew the balance of over $100,000 from her investment account.  He then moved to San Antonio on the same day to buy a house because it was too cold in Temple. I now suspect that he planted the abuse story with our mother so he’d have full access to her assets.

 

This kind of treatment on behalf of my family finally made me realize that I would always be disregarded and disrespected by my mother and brothers. It took me 70 years to realize that they would never love me, so there is no longer any contact with them.  While others might wonder how I could ever treat my family by not contacting them, they should feel fortunate that they never had my childhood experience.  Having no contact is the healthiest thing I’ve ever done regarding my family of origin.

 

My mother is living out her remaining days hundreds of miles from any of her three children.  She tells her brothers and sisters I have blocked her on my phone, which is a lie. Neither my mother nor my brothers are blocked.  If she had bothered to include me in any decisions, I would have had her move somewhere near me.  I would have ensured there was plenty of money to care for her properly. However, I know I’m better off having no contact with them.  After all, I’ve given my mother fresh self-pity material.  Thank goodness I no longer feel compelled to listen to it.

Looks are deceiving.  We were taught that if we looked okay, no one would see the dirt beneath the surface.