Emotionally Manipulated

As I stepped into Dr. Regan’s office, the sharp scent of antiseptic stung my nose. The fluorescent lights were too bright, and the buzz from the medical equipment was a sound I didn’t want to hear.

I didn’t want to be here.

I’d spent years ignoring the signs—the headaches, the fast-beating heart, the tiredness that never went away, no matter how much rest I got.

I remembered the evening I almost passed out in the kitchen, holding on to the kitchen counter to ensure I didn’t fall. Sam had glanced up from his phone as if I were a drama queen.

“It’s in the past,” he’d said. “You need to get over it.”

I had let his words go in one ear and out the other, but I couldn’t understand why he ignored my complaints. It was hurtful. I knew I didn’t have to get over it; I was a human and deserved just as much respect as the next person.

Evie greeted me as I walked up to the reception desk. She was cheerful and always willing to make small talk, but I wasn’t in the mood for conversation today.

As the nurse wrapped my arm with the blood pressure cuff, I could feel her breath on my skin. She held my arm steady, her eyebrows knitting together when my blood pressure numbers were displayed on the screen.

“Your blood pressure is still elevated.”

I exhaled slowly, willing my hands to stop trembling in my lap. The exam paper crinkled underneath me. I already knew. I could feel it. My chest was tight, and my breaths were too shallow—like I could never quite get enough air.

My fingers hovered over my phone, drawn toward Sam’s name. Part of me wanted to call him and explain that my anxiety was now causing physical health issues, but I already knew what he would say.

“You have it pretty good.”

Another dismissive response. He ignored how I felt, just as his family had dismissed him, sweeping any spoken grievances under the rug as if they would vanish. But they never did. It never stopped. And I wasn’t the only one in the family carrying it.

I put my phone down, feeling bitter. The person I once turned to for comfort was now just another source of pain.

Dr. Regan entered, her presence bringing a slight relief. I trusted her; she always listened to me.

She scanned my chart and then met my gaze.

“Tara, your blood pressure is dangerously high.” Her calm voice turned my stomach. She leaned forward slightly, folding her hands on the desk. “I need to ask—are you under more stress than usual?”

I hadn’t considered my stress level, and the question caught me off guard. My first instinct was to downplay it, to brush it off like I always did. I sat there, wordless as my life played like a movie in my head. I was speechless; the words were lost and tangled in the truth I had told Sam for years. I let out a breath and finally admitted it.

“I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten,” I whispered, and I began to cry. “My life, I mean—the kids leaving home, Sam’s struggles with the business, planning for the future, Susan. Sam is not sticking up for me or his family.”

Dr. Regan’s eyes sharpened at that last part. I swallowed hard, unable to stop the tears that had already started.

“Sam’s mom, Susan, is relentless and undermines my marriage every chance she gets. She tells people I’m greedy and only care about her money. She spreads rumors about me to whoever she can. And Sam…” My voice broke, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “He lets her do it. He’s never told her to stop.”

For years, I had excused his silence. But now, saying it out loud, I saw it for what it was. Sam thought he was loyal. He thought he was showing respect to his family of origin. But he was afraid of having the tough conversations. His fear stopped him cold.

Dr. Regan sat back, her gaze steady.

“That’s not just stress on you, Tara. Sam, by his learned behavior, is emotionally manipulating you, just like his family has done to him, most likely his whole life.”

It was strange to hear her words. Hearing her say it out loud made it clear that Susan’s and Sam’s behavior had a name, and that I wasn’t just an ungrateful daughter-in-law or a complaining wife.

“I think it might help you to read Lindsay C. Gibson’s work on emotionally immature parents. It may resonate with your experiences. Her research is relatively new; her books were published in 2015, I think, but a lot of people are coming forward and speaking about this type of abuse now.”

My fingers gripped the chair. I hadn’t expected validation, let alone a diagnosis. Her words shook me out of the trance I’d lived in for the past three decades.

“You have to create distance, Tara. If you don’t, this stress won’t just affect your emotions—it will destroy your health. Stroke. Heart disease. Your physical health is being affected by your emotional health.”

Stroke. Heart disease. I repeated these words, unable to believe or deny their possibility. My father had heart issues. My grandmother had, too. And now here was my doctor, confirming my chances of the same if nothing changed in my life, affirming my reality. I was standing at the edge of the same fate, not because of genetics, but because of how Sam and his family treated me.

I sucked in a sharp breath. I had spent many years bending myself into what the daughter-in-law, Susan, wanted, and the wife, Sam, expected. And for what? A life where I was slowly killing myself?

As I drove home, I heard Dr. Regan’s words in my mind again: stroke—heart disease. The finality of it hit me like a freight train. I had always known the stress was breaking me down, but now it had a name, a consequence I couldn’t ignore. I looked at the book on the front seat, and the words emotional immaturity flashed like a billboard.

When I stepped into our home, I felt depleted. My surroundings reminded me of my marriage—quiet, distant, and shallow. At least Truman was there, with his Chewbacca-sounding greeting and wagging tail.

Sam glanced at me.

“My blood pressure is dangerously high,” I said, then I inhaled a big breath, trying to stay calm.

Sam, typing on his keyboard now, nonchalantly replied, “Maybe stop stressing over what you can’t control.”

Could I stay for a man who refused to prioritize the family he came from over the one he created?

I contemplated this question repeatedly as I read the book my doctor had suggested, Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Adults. But my phone started buzzing beside me, interrupting my thoughts. Tate’s name flashed across the screen.

My grip tightened around the phone, my pulse hammering in my ears. The sheer injustice of what the DeYoungs did still had the power to make my own chest ache. And Sam’s silence through it all was a mirror to my own past. I looked at Tate now—or the version of him in my mind—and I could only imagine the fight it must have taken to stand so tall today. Every ounce of me wanted to drive to him, not to fix anything, but to be near that strength he’d fought for. But I knew that was a battle he had won on his own, and my barging in would only disrespect the victory. But I knew I couldn’t undo the years of damage they had inflicted on all my children, just like no one had undone it for me.

I thought again about Becky and Jerry Jr.’s divorce. Would Susan do the same to me? Would she try to take everything, claim I was unstable, ungrateful, and undeserving? If I were to leave, it wouldn’t be easy. Susan wouldn’t let go quietly. She never had before. But I couldn’t let that stop me. No more hoping Sam would change. No more endless conversations where I explained, again and again, why his family’s treatment of us—and increasingly his treatment of us—was not okay.

Susan had orchestrated every part of our lives, and Sam allowed it. I was just his accessory. She ensured we lived in her world, played by her rules, and bowed to her will. But if I stayed—if I let fear keep me here—then I was handing her my life, my health, my marriage, and my family.

I looked down at the book in my lap. No more hoping. No more waiting. I had given enough to the DeYoungs.