Emotional Abuse

 This one has been in the back of my mind for a while, I want to recollect these terrible moments I guess, just to let it out.

As I write this post, I can hear my mom saying “stop blaming me for your problems.” That is not my intention at all here, I just want to share my stories, as I do in this blog.

During my last mini depressive episode, I was talking to the wall about maybe telling my mom about my growing suicidal thoughts; she’s really all I have and I would like her help through this. Immediately though, I am reminded of the time we went for a walk and I told her I didn’t want to live anymore. Her simple response was, “do it.” Perhaps she thought I was not capable of ending my life, but that response made it clear that I was on my own and that the closest person to me wouldn’t care if I died. As I decided I’m never bringing up the topic with my mom again I get another flash. We went to the beach in Mexico with my aunt and cousin, I must have been 14 at the time. My mom and I got into one of our classic arguments, sparked by some of the most ridiculous shit that half the time we don’t remember what even started it. This time with just the two of us in the room, I decided to drink an entire water bottle without letting go of it once—yea, I don’t know why. I was almost done, the bottle all crumpled up under the pressure, when my mom started talking to me. I signal to her to hold up a little with humming-like noises. She disliked the noises and we begin shouting. Some time later something came over me, I began slamming a coffee mug on my head as my aunt bursts into the room to stop the fight. She restrained me, very tightly, while my mom opened up the curtains, opened the door to the balcony and shouts at me something along the lines of: Want something more effective? Jump off from here! My aunt took me down to the pool with my cousin.

As a child, my mom got mad at me, went grab some scissors and came to my room where I was on my bed, coiled up against the wall, hugging my favorite plush toy, a bee. She climbed on the bed, took the bee from me and proceeded to cut it up. She got it fixed weeks later. Writing this one made me cry, I guess that’s what I want, to let it all out.

During arguments she would threaten to give me up to foster care, or orphanage, or military school, or mental asylum, or my dad when he was still alive. She would grab the phone and call, or pretend to. Many times she would pack some of my clothes, taking me as far as the main entrance of our building. One time she had my dad come all the way to our house only to turn him away, he lived really far.

On several occasions she called the police, twice they came, but never up to our apartment, I remember the sirens.

Then there’s the countless insults; you are stupid, you are an idiot, you are retarded. She was specially mean after my autism diagnosis, again, calling me retarded and stupid when I wore my earplugs and glasses. She came into my room one time to tell me I looked stupid with my autism pride t-shirt, however I decided to cover my ears and scream at the top of my lungs to avoid hearing her, it worked though I was called crazy.

As a child I would go to her room to show her whatever I was playing with; when she was watching tv, she would sigh in disgust and turn up the volume really loud. She would do the same with earphones, blasting the volume and ignoring me altogether.

She would ignore me for hours after a conflict, completely refusing to acknowledge me or anything I said, even if it was important.

When I was in kindergarten I forgot my coat at home, my mom refused to let me go get it and proceeded to blast the coldest air in the car for a while.

One time she took me to a mental hospital instead of taking me to school without telling me.

She tried doing the same she did to my bee plush to my Kizuna AI plush but I quickly ran to her room and grabbed her dog plush threatening to do the same.

And there was also physical abuse, or parenting as I knew it. Spanking, by hand or with the thickest belt ever—she would tell me the metal end would work better,—slapping. At a certain age I began covering myself, which was interpreted as me hitting back, though I did sometimes.

During an argument she started spraying air freshener at me. Then she grabbed the nearby can or Raid and sprayed that on me too.

One day I wanted to do some changes to the settings on our security cameras but I needed to restart the WiFi router, despite not doing anything important, my mom told me I shouldn’t do it. I tried arguing my case but she got fed up with me quickly and things got out of control. My mom scratched my right hand because I was blocking her way—I know I was wrong, I was telling her I wanted to have a peaceful conversation but she kept ignoring me; walking away was never our best quality—a lot of blood was coming out. I got really mad and started shouting really loudly so everyone would know what she did. My mom told me I should call police on her and later she began hitting herself on the temples repeatedly, saying “I’m so stupid, I’m so stupid…” I developed a scar that looks like a cat scratch.

We’re both fucked, I don’t know what else to say. I know I didn’t make things easy, but regardless, some behaviors are just not okay to do, no matter what the child has done. I regret not walking away when I should have, and I regret being pushy at times, I know that just made everything worse.

After my psychosis, when I was getting assessed at the hospital, the doctor was impressed by my experiences, he asked if I considered it emotional abuse. I responded that I didn’t, in my mind I was thinking that it just was the kind of parenting that I got. Needless to say, I don’t think that way anymore.

All this certainly shaped the way I live today. I mean, when my mom gets mad at the cat, when I hear that tone in her voice, I get scared, as if she is mad at me. Same thing when she stomps the ground dramatically, it’s so triggering.

And yet, I don’t know what I would do without her. She gives me everything I could ever want. We have a great place, we never worry about food, she brought me over to live in the US, she pays my college tuition, she accepted me as trans and pays for my HRT, etc. But a hug, an “I love you,” they are almost nonexistent. If only that could change. I often think I should start doing it myself, but it would take so much out of me, and I have never done it before, and I think my mom is stuck in the same situation. I don’t know what to do.