The Fear Is Still Real, But So Am I

I’ve shared bits of my life before, but I want to be honest here, without leaving anything out. For most of my life, I lived under the spell of my mother’s psychological abuse. People tell me I’m crazy. People tell me I’m lying. People tell me I have behavior problems. But the truth is far more complicated and far more painful.

My mother would call me crazy too. She’d say things like: “I wouldn’t do that to you, you know that. You’re crazy. What the fuck is wrong with you? Did you take your meds today?” I’d say yes, and she’d respond that I was lying because I was delusional. “What kind of mother do you think I am?” she’d ask. I don’t remember all the exact phrases at this moment, but they were all variations of the same thing; twisting my reality, making me feel insane, while she appeared to everyone else as the victim. She'd often get on the phone, speak loudly enough for me to hear her, and tell everyone my delusional thoughts of her plotting against me. It's something I've brought up to her several times throughout my life, as well as several professionals and authority figures. Professionals who never felt compelled to look any further than the out of control mentally ill, behaviorally filled teenager who they clearly need to add more mental health medication to, to "fix" her. Not one of them. Not one single "professional."

I’ve watched her do this to multiple people throughout my life. Yet somehow, she found ways to make me and others believe I was the crazy one. She was successful because my behaviors proved her right. The way I learned to survive was not healthy, and she knew exactly how to bring those behaviors out to prove her point. She’s still a victim in her own eyes. I recently reconnected with some family members, and they tell me she will never change. I disagree. I choose to believe there’s hope for everyone. I guess that makes me gullible, naive like a child. I still believe there's good in everyone, even in the worse case of narcissistic personality disorder.

For most of my life, I was almost exactly like her. No one thought I would change or even wanted to change, despite my repeated cries, both outright and silent, begging for help since I was under 4 years old through my behaviors. I was always seen as the child with behavior problems, rather than the child who needed saving. My entire family, everyone I've ever known, looked the other way while keeping their distance to not be affected by her. I can’t help but dwell on the fact that if someone had called CPS on my mother, rather than pretending everything was fine, she might have had a chance at healing, and none of this would have happened.

But I did change. I am still changing. I work hard on my behaviors and thought patterns every single day. Some days are harder than others. Some are easy. I haven’t had a suicidal thought in over, uh, at least six years, but I have had many moments of despair. I go down rabbit holes of anxiety, mostly right before bed, wondering what's so wrong with me that even my own parents can't love me, and wishing I had just one parent, which both are alive, to call for support, advice, or even just to vent or bitch about the weather. I wonder why I’m not enough for them just for being myself. I still worry that people are gossiping about me, I still have triggers, but now I confront them, stop myself, and process them in therapy, and it always comes back to my mother. I sometimes wish I had "daddy" issues instead of "mommy" issues. People are much more accepting and understanding of "daddy" issues give the gender difference. Mothers just "don't do that to their children."

My mother’s voice still lives in my head, telling me I’m crazy, incapable, selfish, spoiled, etc. But I am a completely different person. However, I still love the color pink, I still dance with a hairbrush to the Backstreet Boys, but I am starting to believe I am capable. I am learning that my needs and even my wants are valid. I am not childish for painting my nails fun colors, I am not spoiled, I am not crazy. I have been traumatized for decades, and that makes me quirky and unique. I love myself. I put myself first.

The fear is still real. I control my sadness now much better than before, but the pit in my stomach when I hear her name is still there. I panic when I think she might stumble across this website and sue me for defamation. That fear isn’t irrational, she’s done far worse to me and to others. I prepare for possible encounters with her for months, discussing scenarios with my aunt, friends and therapist. I talk through everything, we go over every possibility of what could happen, just like I had to growing up in her home, and as an adult with a small child in her home. I talk about the fear of defamation of character constantly. I know it’s possible, and even likely, because she has the resources, social status, and connections to make me defend myself in a system that has traumatized me and not protected me for decades, with next to no money, against her. Even simple things, like the state of my car or my apartment, cause anxiety because she could use them to manipulate me, and worse, to manipulate my son. At night, when I should be sleeping, I often panic and run to my desktop to sit for hours, going over every word I’ve written, trying to see if there’s anything she could use against me in a defamation lawsuit. I research defamation laws endlessly, obsessively, trying to find any loopholes she might have.

Despite all this, I have joy. I celebrate small victories. I dance, sing, and reclaim pieces of myself she tried to steal. I have grown into someone who works on herself, values herself, and loves herself, even while carrying decades of fear, trauma, and memories. I am healing. I am surviving. I am living. I will continue to write, because this is my voice, my story, my life, my truth, and it just may save someone someday.

The fear is still real, but so am I. Sharing my truth is how I take my voice back, how I begin to heal, and how I remind myself every day that I am still here, still growing, and still becoming more than what was done to me.