I have a lot of scars. Most of the visible ones are small or subtle—childhood accidents, surgeries, that sort of thing. One is from being hit by a car. I wasn’t seriously injured. When I tell that story, people react with alarm and distress that something like that happened to me when I was so young (nine).
But honestly I don’t care about my physical scars. Not one of them has any traumatic memories associated with it. They’re just kind of there.
The tougher ones are the ones other people don’t see. I haven’t spoken to my mother in nearly three years, and that is because growing up with her was fraught with negative experiences and emotional abuse.
That kind of attention from a parent takes a toll. Her alcoholism, her depression, her constant need for emotional validation—none of these make her a bad person. I see echoes of all of them in myself. But taking them out on her children as she did—her pre-adolescent children—was wrong. It shaped who I am today in ways I cannot even begin to guess, as well as others I can pinpoint clearly (my staggering fear that people will be upset if I disagree with them even mildly being the most visible example)
Cutting ties was hard, but was the right decision. It stops her from hurting me now. But it doesn’t heal the previous hurt, and who knows if anything ever will?
No child should have to see their mother attempt suicide in front of them.
I have.
See me.
This was a hard post to write.
