**Trigger warning: suicide, child abuse, gaslighting, parentification, spiritual abuse**
Growing up, I thought it was my siblings and my bad behavior that caused my mom to treat us the way she did. If I could be good enough often enough, she would be happy all the time. Surprisingly, I don't remember often feeling angry at my siblings for not working as hard as I did to be good. I remember lamenting that I was the only one doing house work, but I don't remember feeling like my siblings should join me. Part of me knew it wasn't their responsibility. But part of me needed to feel like it was my responsibility in order to survive. If something I did kept her calm, I could protect all of us.
I thought all kids were afraid of their parents, but I knew my mom was scarier than average. I remember asking a friend, "does your mom yell at you?" "of course! all the time." "no, like REALLY yell." "yes, rachel, my mom yells. Trust me." I remember wanting to get more specific, but knowing that I wasn't allowed to share family information. I was pretty sure her mom didn't turn red in the face or foam at the mouth when she yelled. I was pretty sure her mom's eyes didn't get ice cold and sharp as daggers. I was pretty sure her mom didn't say the things my mom said. I was pretty sure that her mom kept her hands to herself and didn't throw anything when she yelled. But it would be disrespectful to speak badly about my mom to someone else. My mom would be so embarrassed. It's not her fault she acts like this. She has terrible kids. And she had terrible parents.
I was pretty sure most kids didn't hide in the bathroom with the phone dialed 9- and their thumb hovering over the 1 in case it got bad enough. Most kids probably didn't have an escape route planned to a safe house a mile away. But my mom told me otherwise. "You don't know how good you have it. It's worse out there. Foster care is definitely worse. If you talk to people, they'll misunderstand you and the police will come and take you away from me. Then you'll see how good you had it. With how bad you kids are, you're sure to get beat up. You'll find out what real pain is." So I didn't talk to people. I didn't want anyone to misunderstand.
Instead, I did dishes and tried to keep my little brothers quiet when she was sleeping. I got them food so she didn't have to. I tried to solve arguments before they got loud. People at church called me a "little mommy" and a "good caregiver." They didn't know I did it for survival. They thought I did it for fun. My family called me the "police woman." They did not appreciate being managed. Perhaps they saw clearly what I couldn't see: Her behavior is not our responsibility.
My mom bought me a stuffed animal once just because I was so good. By being sweet and going along with whatever she wanted, I got in less trouble compared to my siblings. I had to watch them get hurt and screamed at, but I convinced myself that they deserved it even as my heartrate and clenched fists tried to tell me otherwise. My mom couldn't be so bad when she wanted to be so good, right? She cried sometimes over how bad she felt. I comforted her and assured her she was the best mommy. Sometimes she felt so bad she took all the pills she could carry into her room and locked the door. She had told us about swallowing a whole mega size bottle of Tylenol in college without any repercussions. We knew God wouldn't let her die since she said it over and over. But we called Dad anyways.
There was a lot she said about God. She and God were closer than any other human she knew - and she seemed to know a lot of people (unlike me who was kept away from "bad influences" for my own protection). She said other people had confirmed to her that she was a prophet, which means that she can hear God and speak for Him. She knows things other people don't, so we better listen to her. She didn't get along with many people because they didn't like hearing from God. They wanted to continue on in their sinful lives. My mom couldn't be that bad if she was a prophet. Another adult had confirmed it so that was that. What did I know?
Plus, think of all the fun things she made sure we got to do in our childhoods since hers was so awful: gymnastics, piano lessons (which I begged to quit every week for 6 years), art class (which was also awful), softball (which was boring and painful when I got hit by the ball), soccer, swim team (which I hated since my coach made fun of me every time I used my inhaler), horse-riding lessons (despite my terrible allergies and in exchange for mucking out stalls), trips to the beach and Disney World (where I was sure I would get lost and kidnapped by someone even worse than my mother).
She didn't neglect us; we got proper medical care. One time she drove 90mph on the highway to get us to our dentists appointments on time while cursing at us the whole way for having made her late. She even took me to a dermatologist (exactly once) to try to address my cystic acne (but their first recommendation didn't work and neither had the over the counter creams, so we gave up). I wondered if my breakouts wouldn't be so bad if she would stop holding me down and "working on my face" (aka popping my pimples which she said she couldn't stand to look at un-popped). She took me to physical therapy when I had terrible joint pain and I got a CT scan after a few bouts of unbearable stomach pain. I heard her tell the doctor that I was her "quiet sufferer" and that if I was complaining about pain, it was really bad - I wore that as a badge of honor and filed it away under "This is Why We Do Not Voice Needs Ever."
Sure, sometimes she slept or stayed in bed until Dad came home from work and roused her, but that was because she was sick. She was always sick. We had to explain to people why she never attended church and that was the line we were told to use. It seemed true. We didn't mind her sleeping all day; it was safer that way! Once I remember she read to me in her bed all day. It was one of my favorite days of being a kid. Usually I was not the one getting any attention because I was not the one needing it. She thanked me for being easy which I also filed under "This is Why We Do Not Voice Needs Ever."
I knew she loved me because she picked me to go with her to GA for two weeks to try to convince her sister not to divorce her husband. I understood things better than my siblings. I wouldn't get in the way of adult conversations. I would help take care of my two little cousins so the grown ups could talk. I was her confidant. She had often told me how awful her own marriage was and how she planned to leave Dad as soon as we kids were out of the house (because she just couldn't hurt us the same way her parents had hurt her - by getting a divorce). I filed this under: People Love You When You Have Something to Offer Them
I woke up one morning to find my sister still asleep with tear-stained cheeks and bruised and bloody feet. She had been up much of the night being marched barefooted down the side of the highway to her boyfriend's house. Mom was angry that she loved him more than her so she was giving her away to him and his family. To remind my sister that she loved her, my mom nudged her near a car each time it passed. This way she would realize the power my mom had to kill her but the love that restrained that power. I remember holding my mom as she cried the next morning, confessing all of this to me and still believing that she had conveyed her love adequately. I stroked her hair and told her I understood her even as I panicked inside wondering who she might try to kill next. It wouldn't be me. I could convince her I understood her. No wonder it's so easy for me to see other perspectives. It's a literal survival skill that I've honed. Part of me knew that behavior was not showing love and that I would never show love that way, but part of me did understand and believe my mom that this was her way of showing love. Maybe this is what love looked like when you didn't do enough to earn more love.
In short the lies I believed:
Make sure you earn your love
Don't voice your needs
Someone who wants to be good can't be bad
Parents' behavior is the responsibility of the children
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