I am an abused child.
I used to say I ‘was’ an abused child until it occurred to me that it never ends.
I just want it to END. I have always looked forward to the deaths of my parents. I figured that was the only way the abuse would end. Boy, did I get that wrong.
Really abusive parents find a way to continue abusing from beyond the grave. I suffered for years at their hands. For my trouble, I got cut out of their estate. My brother and sister assisted them in this. They are accomplices in the continuing abuse, whether they realize it or not.
My sister denies that any abuse took place since she wasn’t on the receiving end of any. Just because she didn’t see or experience it, it didn’t happen. Or I’m just exaggerating or being overly ‘melodramatic’, our mother’s favorite way of invalidating a complaint. She had a childhood because I didn’t and she refuses to recognize this.
My husband and children have heard me tell stories from my childhood over and over. The stories never change. I don’t need to elaborate or exaggerate; the truth is bad enough. In addition, they have each witnessed the continuing abuse at the hands of my mother and sister. My younger daughter isn’t speaking to either of them at the present although they are invited to her wedding, pending their good behavior. My older daughter discounts my accounts of my abuse because she likes her grandmother. The older daughter is my mother’s favorite so she has always received special attention, like my sister did before her. My husband has actually come to my defense against my mother’s abuse. That was a special moment!! Even thinking of it now gives me a warm feeling.
Years ago, I tried to distance myself from my parents in the hope that the abuse would fade off. Hah! They got at me through my siblings and kids. Abusers always find a way. Even moving over 300 miles away wasn’t far enough.
For my attempts at self preservation I was branded an ‘ungrateful daughter’. I still haven’t been able to figure out what I’m supposed to be grateful for: the childhood that ended suddenly at 9 years of age, the beatings, the lack of medical care that almost killed me and contributed to the terminal heart condition I live with today or the physiological abuse that still prevents me from fulfilling my potential. (When you live with constant, harsh criticism, it’s hard to ever find the courage to do anything.) Therapy helped keep me from suicide.
So, not only did my father not love me, but my brother and sister were content to assist him in hurting me from beyond death.
I don’t know which hurts more.