When your mum is the Devil

Sounds a bit over kill, calling my mum the devil, but she is the root of all the evil that lies deep within my brain. I struggle to even use the word mum, because I don’t believe she deserves the title.
I have always wanted the mum that people talk about, the one you turn to for help, comfort and advise, the best friend you could ever have. But my mum isn’t my best friend, I actually consider her my worst enemy, if I think of the worst thing anyone has said to me, they came from her mouth. She is an angry, spiteful, aggressive and violent individual, who considers herself an angel who can do no wrong.

 I am sure you will gasp when I say I hate her, but it’s the truth! She has made me feel worthless and unlovable, if your own mother doesn’t love you, who will? However, I suppose a part of me still loves her, or more importantly a part of me still craves her love. How mad is that?
All she has ever done, is tell me how useless I am, how she wishes she had strangled me at birth. She criticised everything I said, everything I did or didn’t do, mocked me and sneered at me. My negative voice is very much like her – if it isn’t her in its entirety. I don’t have anything to do with either of my parents or my sister, finally had enough of all the criticism about 4 years ago.

I know I am an adult and I am ultimately responsible for the unhappy, constrained life that I have, but I think she played a massive part. In many ways I still feel like a child, I feel that life is unjust, I feel I don’t have a voice. I try to be what people want me to be, but I struggle to understand what it is that they want, therefore I always get it wrong. I’ve lost who I really am, I tried so hard for so long.

I tried so hard to get her to love me, but I was a nothing. She had her eldest daughter, the girly girl. And her baby boy. Then there was me, the nothing in the middle. The good for nothing one.

Her violent side

She was quite aggressive and violent too. Whipping with a dogs leads, slapping, pulling hair, pushing me around. In recent years I have yearned to do the same to her, but then I would be like her and I have no desire to be anything like that woman!

I wonder if she felt evil, when she whipped me with the dog’s lead. When I think back my memory implies she took pleasure hurting me.I remember several occasion hiding in the cupboards and wardrobes, thinking I wouldn’t get found and hit. I was good at hiding, being on my own. She would whip the leather lead across the back of my legs, across the already sore skin, covered in eczema. Occasionally the metal clip would make contact, that would really hurt. I wonder if she ever considered the mental and physical pain, she was inflicting on me.

One of the times I hated her the most was when she pulled me around by my hair and slapped me. When I think of it, all I can think about is doing the same to her. I feel such anger towards her. We argued, about something quite trivial, she shouted at me to get to my room.

As I started going up the stairs, she grabbed me by the hair and pulled me back down. I ended up sitting on the stairs, a few steps up. She told me to get up, when I tried to stand up, she slapped me. Not a little slap, a full pull her arm back as far as it would go, full force slap. I hit my head on the bannisters of the stairs and fell back down. She did this over and over. I kept answering her back, I should have known when to shut up, except defeat and give in, but I didn’t have the ability to keep my mouth shut. Both sides of my face were stinging, but it was the psychological pain that ate into me.

Even as an adult, she would push me and slap me. This makes me feel so stupid, why did I let her? Why didn’t I stand up to her? Why didn’t I defend myself, instead of resorting to having no power.

Her evil tongue

To give you a feel for what she is like, I have listed just a few examples:

  • At 9 years old she convinced me that no one wanted to sit with me, she seemed to enjoy isolating me. You can read about it in the lonely playground.
  • I was a loner as a child, when we were due to go to secondary school, I was terrified of going to a new school, I would cry myself to sleep. All my mum had to say was “don’t be so bloody stupid! Get to sleep!” But she never realised how scared I was and how that first day walking to school on my own affected me. I saw all the groups, kids laughing and joking, I just wanted to hide or be invisible. It felt like I was in hell.
  • My first bra was given to me in front of the entire family, everyone laughing and having fun – well I wasn’t laughing – I felt humiliated. To this day I am conscious about my boobs.
  • Instead of telling me I had reached the age where you need to wear deodorant and buying me some. Her and my dad spent weeks, laughing at me, telling me I stink. When I asked what of, they would just laugh and tell me to go away, the stench was too much for them. To this day I worry about stinking, because I didn’t know I stunk then, so would I now? If I smell Body Odour, I always assume it’s me and rush off to the toilet to sniff my pits. I also use half a can of deodorant every day.
  • When I started my periods, I couldn’t tell my mum, I was too terrified of the entire family laughing about it, I was so embarrassed. Instead I stole sanitary products from my sister’s cupboard. When she caught me after a number of months, my mum threw some sanitary towels at me, these are for your sister and these are for you! That was the end of the conversation.
  • At the time my periods started so did the acne, no support from her here either. This time is was because I was dirty and didn’t wash. I scrubbed and scrubbed my face but couldn’t get clean. Another reason I wanted to be invisible, I was a disgrace! A stinky, ugly, spotty mess!
  • My mum looked me in the eye when I told her what the private consultant had said, she sneered at me and said “I am glad you can’t have kids; you would have made a terrible mother. You can read more in my “Infertility diagnosis” post.
  • When my husband hung himself, she told me it was my fault and that I made him really unhappy. She never asked how I was, never knew I was diagnosed with PTSD, wouldn’t have cared anyway. You can read more about that awful subject here “When I found my husband hanging”
  • When I told my parents that I was leaving my husband, I hoped it would give me the final shove and I would do it. I had always known and worried about them taking his side, but it didn’t make it any easier when that became the reality. My mum telling me she checked how he was and not me, because she knows I am cold, heartless and have no feelings, therefore I couldn’t possibly be upset. In reality I was falling to pieces, lay in bed all day for a week, not wanting to face the day, the world or my reality. I was heartbroken. I was scared and I was alone.

That’s pretty much how I have lived my life, feeling scared and alone.

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