As a little girl, I often hid in the bathroom. I would lock myself in with a book, sitting over the heat vent. It was the warmest place in our perpetually freezing house. Anytime I asked to turn the heat up, my mother would shout at me, ‘You’re going to make us homeless. We can’t afford that! What’s wrong with you?’
So, I would sit in the bathroom, soaking up the heat and waiting for the inevitable moment she’d bang on the door screaming. The storm could come at any time, so I would listen for her footsteps in the hall. When it finally did come, it was always when I least expected it, when I was so deeply lost in my book, I forgot I was sitting on a bathroom floor.
Bang! Bang! Bang! ‘You’ve been in there forever! What’s wrong with you? Can’t you poop? It shouldn’t take this long! You’re just being lazy!’
I’d jump up and scramble, frantically flushing the toilet and washing my hands. She waited in the hall, and I knew I’d stayed too long. Tucking my book under my arm, I’d ready myself for a mad dash past her. I’d open the door, ready to dodge and run, but there wasn’t enough room in the narrow hallway. She’d grab my arm and yank it, my book falling to the floor.
‘Is this what you were doing for so long? Other people need to use the bathroom too. You’re so selfish.’
I’d mutter something about the second bathroom, but that was a mistake. She’d yank harder and twist my arm for sassing her. I wouldn’t get away until I apologized and gave her my book.
I knew my mother wasn’t a great mother, but mostly, I blamed myself. Other people were abused, not me. They suffered broken bones and scars. Yeah, I got spanked with wooden spoons, but that was only when I was bad. It wasn’t random. It was my fault.
As an adult, I was too pretentious, throwing my multiple degrees in my high-school-educated mother’s face. I was too difficult, getting frustrated when she insisted all holidays happened at her house. My sister and I would joke about needing a glass of wine to call her. It was funny, needing alcohol to deal with her.
My perspective changed when I finally realized my mother was abusive. I wish I could say it happened right away, but it was years of therapy, and journaling, and depressing self-help books. Someone asked me if I would treat a child like my mother treated me. Of course I wouldn’t. It was horrible. I wouldn’t treat a dog like that…Oh.
My mother stopped by the house one day, bragging how she had taken our niece and nephew to a pumpkin patch. My alcoholic sister had canceled the trip I had planned with them…twice. I wasn’t in the mood to look at pictures. I pretended to fix something and I walked away. Irate, my mother left without saying goodbye, my good-natured father following in her wake.
Weeks later, my father called. I needed to apologize. If I didn’t, she wouldn’t invite us to Christmas. I almost did apologize. Maybe I should have been more sensitive. Maybe I could have just looked at the damn pictures. She was my mother, and she deserved better. My mother couldn’t yank my arm anymore, but she sure could twist my heart around.
But did she deserve better? I knew by this point, she had been both emotionally and physically abusive. My sister named it before I was able to. My therapist had confirmed it. My mother didn’t make me drink. My mother made me believe it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that I drank till I blacked out because I wasn’t hurting anyone but myself. But after all of that inner work, I began to wonder if maybe I was the one who deserved better.
So, I didn’t call her. I didn’t apologize. My husband and I spent a quiet Christmas alone with our puppy. It was a little sad but mostly peaceful. The biggest surprise was that I stayed sober. It was just a few weeks at first. I’d done that before, but I started going to meetings regularly. I started texting and calling people in the program for help, something I had never done before. Day-by-day, I realized it wasn’t selfish to want sobriety. It wasn’t selfish to set boundaries and expect them to be honored. I didn’t have to hide from the cold, instead I could work to warm my whole house. I don’t blame my mother for my problems with alcohol. I take responsibility for my actions. But I still haven’t spoken to my mother, and I’m still sober. I’m too smart to think that those things aren’t related.
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