My mother was both an accomplice and a dictator.
Often, abusive mother’s go unnoticed in the world of sexual crimes. That should not be so. Sometimes they are silent witnesses, sometimes they are not. In my case, my mother was definitely part of the crime scene.
I grapple with the idea that this is just a control based scenario, although I’ve read about it. Having been a victim to these crimes, I see their continual lust for more guide them on their heinous journeys.
It was just as much about her pleasure, as it was my father’s. Or was it all control?
Control has a little bit to do with just about everything in the life – for better and for worse.
My counselor used this word to describe the behaviors of my mother towards me.
It has been a chilling journey to follow my path by her.
Haunting and unrelenting, her memories return to me. I’m not sure which was more terrifying: not being loved by her or being hated by her – one had action, one did not. I don’t say that lightly. I understand the meaning.
Daily she did what she could to make me feel not only unwanted but despised. She couldn’t find time in the day to even glance my way. She hated my very existence and I knew it.
I was her excuse to let her rage and hatred out for everything she had not received in life or maybe – just maybe, for the abuse she had received before I came along.
I forgive her and I don’t want to be her friend. I forgive her and I don’t want her to sit at my Christmas table. I forgive her because I understand who she is.
I wasted a lot of years chasing my parents to find answers, to find forgiveness and to learn from them my hidden story.
They would have never given me the keys to the prison cell they once locked me in. Never! They would have kept me as their prisoner. Silenced, forever.
My Cinderella story lives in my relationship with a God much bigger than my past. I adore Him!