Cutting ties

Growing up in an abusive household is terrible, after the fact. During the ordeal that was every moment from birth until you told your old man to get fucked at sixteen it's just normal. You don’t know that it isn’t okay, or at least I didn’t. Once I left home, after my father had kidney punched me until I thought he had ruptured something, I found out it wasn’t alright.

Some people have said “Well, didn’t you notice how different it was when you went to other peoples houses Hugh?” The truth is, no. Abusers are great actors. When others are around they are the nicest parents. So, I just always assumed it was the same for everyone else. Friendly when there’s company and in goes the boot behind closed doors.

Once I left, then I realized it wasn’t okay. That is when the real pain starts. Physical pain is horrible, but nothing beats the pain a brain can inflict on itself. Panic attacks, anxiety, depression. PTSD they said. That’s why a whole lot of my childhood is a blur and why I get anxious around older men. Like the sound of a helicopter to a Vietnam Vet, although probably nowhere near as bad.

But this story isn’t about dear old Dad and his tender mercies. This is about the other perpetrator of our less than perfect childhood.

My Mother.

Back when I went into therapy the first time I had a therapist that told me point blank “Your mother is as much to blame as your father.” I had myself removed from that guy. “How dare he tell me that my mother is to blame, she’s a hero.” The damaged psyche of a sixteen year old looking for any normalcy.

Now, in my forties and a parent myself, I get what he meant. I waited a long time to have kids. Always afraid of becoming him. Now I realize that even on my worst day that could never happen. I would also never allow that to happen from another source.

My mother was of course a victim of the same things I was, but never a survivor of it. Even after the divorce. You might find the story ahead of this point a little harsh. You may think I am being too mean. Whatever you think, I hope you can understand my decision.

In my late twenties, I left where I lived. Sold all my gear and came home. The reason? Mum was finally leaving Dad. They say a lot of kids blame themselves for the divorce. I had dreamed of it since the day I realized the kind of human he was.

So I left to help Mum out. Spent a couple of years living with her so she could get back on her feet. Then I moved out on my own again and she moved into a community. I was happy, finally she was ready to move on. But that happiness was premature.

Six months after moving into the community, she wanted to move out. When I asked her why, she replied “Well Trish is a conniving bitch and Tony is weird and Julia is a cow.” These were the three main people she had made friends with. Now her worst enemies and people she never wanted to talk to again.

I thought “Well, shit happens.” and then moved on. Unfortunately that was just the beginning. Over the next ten years, she would move from community to community. making friends and then alienating them all within six months to a year.

As this continued, I got more involved in the reasons why she was alienating these people and realized they were ludicrous at best. One lady simply turned up for a planned day out an hour late, without letting Mum know first.

My brother and sister and I, tried to talk to her on many occasions. We suggested she see someone, talk about this stuff. She tried to talk to us about it, but having your children as your therapist is hardly a workable solution.

As to anyone talking to a professional? She flat out refused. She didn’t want to be seen as damaged. I mentioned, I had been to see more than one, that there was no issues, she just needed help to get past all the stuff with Dad. She told me she would think about it, which I now know was just code for “No, piss off.”

As the years progressed I realized something even worse was happening. My brother, my sister and I, were quite often at each others throats about things we had said. It took a while to put the dots together, but we realized that all of these things had come from mum and most of them were either complete fabrications or taken wildly out of context.

My brother ended up cutting her off. For about six months he refused to talk to her. I being the dutiful son tried hard to get them talking again. Even though this was causing me a lot of stress and was turning out to be the thankless job of listening to my mother bitch about everyone, including me.

We thought she was a child! We treated her like one all the time. How many times did she need to apologize? Although she was never specific what she was apologizing for. My stress levels were through the roof. I now dreaded talking to her. But kept doing so. because she was so alone and needed help.

Eventually came the day my brother decided to make contact again. He wanted me to let Mum know he was willing. So I had a chat to Mum on the phone. She was happy at first, glad she would have him back to talk too. I suggested that she not worry too much about who was right and wrong and just try and let the past be that.

I thought that would go down well, let’s all get along sounds good right? Wrong! She started yelling at me. “How dare you talk to me like I'm a child. I am your mother. You all think I am just a stupid old cow.” and so on. That tirade went on for about five minutes.

Then we hit boiling point. Trying to get a word in edge ways I raised my voice. “Mum, for fucks sake, let me speak!” She stopped, then said the one thing she knew was likely to stop me in my tracks. “Why are you yelling at me? You know, sometimes you are just like your father!”

She’d used this tactic before. It was a great get out of argument free card and she knew it. Being compared to my father was my Achilles Heel. But something was different this time. Something snapped in me.

Finally I saw her, truly saw her. Saw the way she alienated everyone. The way she played people off against each other. The way she acted the victim so we would feel sorry for her. I finally saw the woman she was and realized something.

If I had met her on the street, or at work. I would never have been friends with her. She was not someone I would choose to associate with. She was simply not a good person. Whether she was always like that, or it was all Dads doing I didn’t know.

What I did know was that I was done. Done trying to help her. because she didn’t want help. Done trying to reason with her, because reason had fled her long ago. Done making my wife and kids secondary to the needs of a woman that craved attention, even if it was negative and stressful for everyone else involved.

So I told her that. “Mum, I am done. I love you, but I am done. You won’t help yourself and you won’t ever move on. My family, is my wife and kids, they are my focus. If you want to be a part of that, then you need to stop all of this. I won’t be stuck in the middle and I won’t be dragged down by this anymore.”

I hung up the phone then. My blood was boiling from the comment about being like my father and I needed to clear my head.

That night I received an email from her. It was at least three thousand words long and all about how I was a horrible son and how we all hated her. She apologized for being such a horrible mother, then launched into a bit about how we thought we were better than her.

I sent her one back. Simply stating again that we were done. Not for six months, not for a year. Done. Forever an irrevocably, done. I would be blocking her on everything I could and wanted nothing to do with her. She attempted contact a few times. I simply ignored her and blocked her on whatever media she contacted me.

Two years have gone by now and she still attempts contact every now and then. I simply ignore it and move on. I get to hear from my brother about what she does all of the time, but it no longer effects me.

They say you can’t choose your family. But that isn’t actually true. I did. My wife and my children, with all their foibles are my family. I look at my kids now. So young and so full of potential and realize the day will come when they will no longer need me.

Instead of filling me with dread, it fills me with joy. I also have hope. I hope I am a good enough parent and a good enough human that they will choose to have me in their lives for all of mine. I use the failures of my parents as a road map of what not to do.

Trust me, I’m not perfect. I have my moments and the depression, with all that goes with it, has never gone away. But I feel better now than I have in years. Happy in the knowledge that one of the hardest decisions I ever made was the right one.