I do have a mother – but for the vast majority of my life she made me want to be or made me feel motherless.
I write this for all the strong women I know or don’t know who are strong feminists, despite having mothers who emotionally abused them.
I deeply believe that the vast majority of women that abused do so under the mental, physical, economical or sexual abuse of men. But not all women – some just abused like men, coz they want power over another human.
I have spent many years wasting my life trying to find and make excuses for my mother. But in the end, I have to face the harsh truth, a truth I want to run away from.
My mother is a deeply selfish and highly privileged woman. She made the choice to put her abusive husband in front of her children.
She did it not out of fear, not coz she didn’t have many other choices and roads to go down – but because she love the image of being the wife that protects her husband from all the lies said about him.
When I look with a clear eye at my mother – I see and know she has power, that she enjoys being in control.
She has all the privileges of being white and upper middle-class, and she continually uses that privilege to her advantage, often to humiliate other people.
I sorry if my anger and grief about my mother unsettles some feminists – but since hearing my stepdad’s cancer, I have terrible memories of how my mother sacrifice me to have a long-term marriage.
I remembered her constant telling me she wished she had aborted me, like I suppose to be darned grateful to have her as a mum.
I remembered her saying to me, not to let her husband make me pregnant. Not shocked or horrified, just in a matter-of -fact tone.
I remembered that if I came home after being prostituted with cuts, bruises, internal injuries, or just scared and wanting to have some kind of a mum – she did more than turning a blind eye, she made sure I know it was only happening coz I wanted it.
I remembered if I run away but came home – finding no dinner for me, no saying where you been, no anger, no caring that I even existed. I know if I wasn’t in my mum’s sight, I was nothing to her.
I remembered being told I was a whore before I had any understanding what a prostitute was.
I remembered trying to kill myself – failing, and finding my mum laughing and telling I was too stupid to even kill myself.
These are just a few tip of the iceberg examples of how my mum mentally abused me.
I will never trust her, never find real love for her – but I will be polite and try to not show her that she can get to me still.
But my stepdad having cancer – has made scared to speak or write to my mum.
I have not the mental energy to hear how wonderful, how brave he is. I have enough of that bastard being worshipped.
I am in bad place – this post is a small part of it.