I thought my dad was my abuser but I realised it was my mum too

‘You think you’re something, don’t you?’

‘Well, Little Miss Perfect has joined us.’

‘Your nose is a little long – otherwise, you’d be so much prettier’.

These were all things my mother would say to me as a teenager, as part of her verbal abuse and psychological manipulation.

I’ve since cut off all contact with her for the sake of myself and my son. I didn’t have any other choice.

Abuse was commonplace in our household. 

My father was addicted to both alcohol and drugs, and my earliest memories are of my father physically abusing my mother.

As a result, I grew up very fast. I was almost psychic, as a child. I became very good at reading the room and protecting my siblings – and I took on a protector role for my mother.

I’d stand as a barrier between her and my father. I’d clean her wounds, console her, and try to revive her when she was unconscious.

Our house was full of broken objects, bruises and blows, yelling and screaming.

Years later, I found the knife marks in my bedroom door from an episode when my father was hallucinating and thought we were demons.

I’d propped myself up against the door while my sister slipped out of the window and ran out onto the street.

Growing up, I never knew life could be different. We were surrounded by deprivation and chronic unemployment, and kids would partake in drinking alcohol with their parents. Our own situation felt normalised; there was a sense of ‘what goes on behind closed doors, goes on behind closed doors’.

I found the knife marks in my bedroom door from an episode when my father was hallucinating and thought we were demons

All the same, I knew I didn’t want this to be my future. I didn’t want to repeat the generational cycle that my parents were repeating – my father came from an abusive childhood – so I threw myself into school, competing in everything and aceing all my studies.

Throughout it all, my relationship with my parents was complicated.

My father was never just his addictions. In his sober moments, he was an incredible communicator, immensely interested in my siblings and I, and very creative.

As his sobriety grew less and less over time, though, so did our glimpses of that person.

On the face of it, my relationship with my mother was very simplistic: I was her protector.

But it was more complex than that. She was a functional parent, providing us food and shelter, but she was also emotionally unavailable.

She was hyperfocused on my father; any affection she showed to me or my siblings was limited. She was always distracted and distant, and any conversation would always be about her.

The only time my mother praised me was when I looked after her and it took me a long time to realise I couldn’t play that role any more.

My parents split when I was a teenager, and that was when my mother’s abuse started in earnest.

She’d criticise my physical features and said she was embarrassed when I came home from school with trophies because I ‘took them away from other kids’.

My mother would also limit our food intake. We’d have to compete for food, and she’d justify the lack of it as beneficial to our weight control.

Whenever I confronted my mother, she’d gaslight me: ‘Are you sure you heard that? I have no idea what you’re talking about. You must be tired.’

But I truly believed my mother was a victim and could be excused for her behaviour.

At university, I received many, many phone calls – my younger sister was in direct conflict with my mother and they both sought me out to resolve the issues.

I’d succeed in calming them down; but it kept happening. After a particularly bad clash, my sister was kicked out of the house and ended up with an abusive boyfriend.

In short, it was a cycle; one I couldn’t seem to distance myself from.

My discomfort was increasing, but I still thought I could fix it. I invited my family to group counselling, scheduling appointments for my visits back home.

My mother would show up, promise to do her ‘homework’ and then renege on all her promises.

I truly thought we could do the work together. But what I had underestimated was that my mother was an abuser herself.

We didn’t stand a chance at truly healing as a family until my mother accepted this and sought help. But she never would. Her default was always sobbing and false remorse.

Age 29 I finally gave up on group therapy, by which time I was married to my university sweetheart and had had my son.

Having a child had highlighted everything that was wrong with my relationship with my mother. But she’d never done anything in front of him, and I really wanted my son to have his grandparents.

Then, something happened.

I was afraid for my son to be in her presence and I knew something had to change

When my son was a baby, we were visiting my mother and stepfather – she’d married again by this point – when my mother flew into a rage and threw something at my stepfather. It came my way while I was holding my son.

That sealed it. I knew, in that moment, that nothing was sacred to my mother – not even her grandchild.

I was afraid for my son to be in her presence and I knew something had to change. My child was my absolute priority and I knew I deserved to be treated with love, care and respect, too.

This toxic cycle would end with my son and I.

I tried to instill boundaries with my mother; but these were violated again and again.

During one phone conversation, I tried to tell my mother about my therapy, and what I’d learned about how to try and break an abuse cycle. My mother went from crying, to yelling, to verbally abusing me. She hung up; then, after repeated calls, sent me a long letter detailing why I was the abuser.

I sent her an email explaining that, given all the dysfunction, I wished us both peace, calm and resolution through ceasing all contact.

And that was that, until my son and I decided to do DNA tests together when he was 12. Through this, I learned that my father was not my biological parent; and that sealed my estrangement from my mother.

For a lifetime, my mother had not just abused me; she’d also lied to me.

I felt so betrayed.

I called my mother and asked for the truth. She insisted it must be someone else’s report; that I was fabricating the test; even that I must have been swapped in the hospital at birth.

I hung up – I had no words.

That was in 2020 – and, since then, I’ve remained committed to my decision to be estranged from my family.

My father passed away prematurely in when I was in my early 30s as a result of his addictions, and most of his family has passed, too. I only have contact with one aunt on my mother’s side who knows very little about the situation.

I grieve deeply for my family – I had to sever my relationship with my sister, too, because she and I have very different ideas about what sort of behaviour is acceptable – but I have wonderful relationships with my own family, friends and colleagues. I’ve picked a new story for myself.

I do wonder what will happen when my mother dies, and my decision not to attend her funeral.

But, ultimately, I know that no one ever owes abusers anything.

I made the right choice for me, and for my son. And I’ll never look back.

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