What it's Like to Grow Up with an Abusive Parent: Hopping off the Merry-Go-Round
I recently explained my relationship with my father with this metaphor: It’s as if I’m putting a piece of my soul into a vending machine, pressing the button for Cheetos, and instead receiving a pile of dusty bran.
Angry dusty bran.
Angry dusty sentient bran that is somehow also a next-level expert in gaslighting.
My journey to understanding my father first began with therapists, then textbooks, then internet rating scales entitled “He might be a sociopath if…”
I was depressed and anxious as a pre-teen and teenager. I thought it was mostly me (and of course, the general state of the world), but much of what I talked about in each therapy session was about some awful thing my dad said or did in our household and how he was perceived by others outside of that home.
It was a constant internal battle to file “Verbal abuse before church” with “Coaching my soccer games to exemplify model dad.” I felt like I was paralyzed and torn in half at the same time with no words to explain either. His effort toward outward appearance sucked the air out of my sense of safety. “Your dad? But, he’s so nice? No, that can’t be true sweetie.”
When he announced the “dissolution of marriage,” a fun semantic way to worm out of reality, between him and my mom, he was fully moved into a new apartment in the neighboring town and had been for weeks.
I hadn’t even noticed.
My mother, a sweet and hilarious asthmatic from rural Ohio, also thought there was something wrong with her, until 7 years later when she cracked a beer on the deck with my stepmom as we packed my things to move me out of the second home he broke.
The extent of the mind-fuckery wore on me, as though I carried a lead backpack on my shoulders for a lifetime and had to rediscover how to walk after taking it off, unweighted but a bit crooked.
My sister and I took bets when he married our stepmom, an equally lovely woman from Boston with an MBA from MIT and a laugh that could crack a Buckingham guardsman.
We knew this rubberbanding would snap eventually, that he would find a reason why she was also unsuitable (to put it politely) and plant his flag at the summit of Mount Delirious Ego Trip once again.
When that day finally came, it just so happened to be within the newly opened 5-year window for a spouse to request alimony, and so he did. My dad put new kitchen appliances and a back deck on her credit card, then asked my stepmom in the divorce papers to supplement his 6 figure paycheck with her bigger 6 figure paycheck.
A true class act.
The courts thankfully laughed in his face, but still required her to cut a check to split assets 50/50. *eye. roll.
And so my mom, my boyfriend, and I went over to the second house that my dad built and ran from to debrief with my stepmom and listen, wide-eyed with hands slapped over mouths in disbelief then roaring laughter.
As we swapped stories, we realized they were the same.
“He said that to you in 1996? He said that to me on TUESDAY.” Commence uproarious traumatized laughter in the sunshine of the back deck my stepmother had just paid for.
My boyfriend shook his head in disbelief and I felt seen. Not only did we have evidence of his….tactics….but our bond only further fused.
Resilience is a Leinenkeugels with your moms, cheersing crisis and truth in the sun.
My mother and stepdad attended my stepmom’s wedding (are you confused yet?) a few years later to an incredible man at a hotel on the water in Massachusetts.
When I got my nails done for the ceremony and attempted to explain to the nail tech who did not know what she was getting into when she asked, “What’s the occasion?” I smiled and shrugged my shoulders because my modern family was forged under immense pressure and by JesusChristMichelleObama are we diamonds.
I laugh.
I use shiny metaphors and cuss words.
I tell happy memories along with the devastating ones because it’s all I can do to reclaim my life as my own.
But abuse is not silly or funny and is rarely processed in the moment. It changes brain chemistry and life trajectory and one’s ability to trust others and worst yet, trust themselves.
It warps self-perception and paints a fuzzy edge around the truth. No “happy little trees” here, just an abstract amalgamation of colors and sharp lines and the occasional question mark exclamation point combo floating in the center of the work.
In late 2016, I wrote my father a one-page letter telling him I could no longer live a life with him in it, and that I wasn’t going to. I blocked his number and took a weighty inhale that has not yet fully released.
In return, I received letters from him written in angry scrawl with nearly every third word capitalized. “You PROMISED me this would NEVER happen.” *Read: “It’s intolerable for me to experience the consequences of my own actions. How dare you not allow me to continue to abuse and harass you, you self-righteous bitch.”
Next came the commanding emails with all the email addresses in my name CC’d for good measure. “I am moving and you will need to pick up your bedroom set from my storage unit. The code is blah blah blah. I have informed them you will pick this up by July 18th. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Don’t forget the colorfully dull email about his final wishes we were expected to carry out in the event of his death. “The Chapel encouraged me to pass along my wishes to my next of kin / blood relatives. The chapel has all of my related docs and final details when the time comes.”
The most upsetting was a 30-minute YouTube video manifesto, password protected mind you, imploring me to see the world “as it was,” that everyone I knew and loved was actually the worst and was out to get him, and that I was crazy, too.
In it, he used the phrase, “Change your lens” approximately 25bazillion times.
He had many similar phrases he liked to blast on repeat throughout our lives that communicated “Shame on you, you simple small idiot in no way deserving of my respect.” Things like “Lighten up,” and “You owe it to yourself to listen to dad.”
Referring to himself in the third person has been another nightmare on its own. “It’s interesting that you don’t want to spend time with your dad.”
About a month after I wrote the letter breaking up with my abusive father before going home for the first holiday after I built a brick wall around myself, I had a nightmare and woke up hyperventilating.
In the dream, I was living in a small but tall three or four story condo with my boyfriend. My address was unlisted and I was safe. Until I came downstairs for coffee and found my dad sitting on the couch. I screamed but no sound came out. I was choking on my lack of oxygen as he came toward me. My boyfriend walked down the stairs next and said, “Oh yeah, Em, your dad came over last night and apologized. Isn’t that great?” He moved toward me for a hug or for murdering - it always felt the same - I pulled out a gun and woke up gasping for air.
It has always been my most suffocating fear, that I would not be protected by others because they could never see or know or comprehend his sinister true self.
I got out of bed and sat on the edge of the bathtub gasping and shaking and crying uncontrollably. My boyfriend came and initially laughed because my boobs were fully out of my kitty cat muscle shirt I chose to sleep in that night, then put his arm around me and helped me breathe. When we laid back down, I continued to shake. It felt like my trauma was finally hitting me and I mentally broke.
I couldn’t bear the weight of managing my father, either mentally or in person, and I decided then and there that I was not going to be quiet. I was not going to let my silence or uncertainty of what words to choose suffocate me and leave me vulnerable to my nightmare.
Everyone would know, so that no one would open the door.
I don’t remember that holiday trip home. I imagine that my sister went to see him briefly to clock her time as daughter and then we drank and bitched and laughed and cried when she returned home.
And that has been our existence for these past few years. I live a life with him on the periphery and play hopscotch from room-to-room at the family gatherings that I deem “worth it” to avoid getting within 10-to-infinite feet from him.
But my guts still tangle and pulse and constrict when I am near him, when I consider the family that I love who knows the truth and continues to extend the invitation anyway.
This of course has worked and hasn’t worked for the last several years. And I have learned that it is impossible to have anything both ways.
I can’t vocalize my trauma and eat capicola in the same house as him.
I can’t advocate for uncompromising boundary building and pirouette past him when grabbing my coat to leave.
I can’t be loud and quiet at the same time, and I definitely won’t be quiet.
After an un-ignorable shitfit he threw at a family event this summer, my aunt and uncle asked to videochat with me.
I decided I was open to talking, because I wanted to encourage talking about the things instead of not talking about the things, and practiced my response if I were to receive reprimand instead of support. “I appreciate your openness to talking about this, but I am uninterested in feedback at this time.”
Or something that similarly communicated cut-the-crap.
What happened instead was my godfather, an equally Italian patriarch, told me that he’s no idiot and has seen all along the facade my dad tries to maintain and the damage he causes.
He asked how they could support me and I almost fainted in disbelief. They fucking get it??? What. And also how. How did I not know I had help and understanding all this time?
That is what quiet does to you. It allows you to boil in your own pain with the lid on tight instead of screaming for help and seeing who shows up. But screaming for help feels impossible when you don’t understand the problem, or worse, that you think you are exaggerating or that because you “have a roof over your head” that your suffering is somehow not worthy of help.
But since I started to be loud, to ask for help, people have shown up. People have called and texted and responded to my internet writings in a flurry of “Wow, we had no idea” or “We knew something was up, but we had no idea it ran this deep.”
So when my aunt and uncle proposed we sit down as a family, all of us, and air things out in hopes of enjoying cannolis together or at the very least, holding him accountable, I said yes.
When my sister and I arrived at “the intervention” in late October of this year, we parked at the end of the driveway for an easy exit and reminded each other that we would leave immediately if one of us wanted to and that we will definitely not give him a hug.
When the door opened, our father (who art in Heaven...just kidding) launched out of his seat on the couch and gave us each a hug. (FUCK. Oh well. Onward).
The night began with my uncle pouring us each a glass of wine and asking the room who would like to state their goals first. I said I would, and I stated firmly that my goals were to coexist amicably at family gatherings and that was it.
My dad started into a speech about how he has “always said” that “if you fail as a father, you fail at life.” I shoved down my laughter and instead stared at the family bichon who had brought me his rope toy.
I steer clear of guilt like I steer clear of red baseball caps.
The night went on and was an overall…success. No, my dad had not changed an ounce in five years. It was as if he stood still as time passed him by and pressed “go” again that very evening. But as he spoke and shared his recycled lies that I had heard my entire life, his power over me deflated. And I would consider that in itself the only success I was ever going to get, and for me it’s enough.
At the end of the night, my father asked my sister and I if we would be open to “Facetiming sometime to talk about our days.” We looked at each other and said, sure, we would be open to it (I blame the wine).
The next day we received a text from him that began with, “Thank you both for agreeing to weekly Facetimes.”
I about fell out of my goddamn chair.
A few weeks went by and his antics continued. We finally decided it was time to talk - again - even though we could never be heard even if we took a megaphone to his face.
On the phone call, we talked about how we felt yet again disrespected and addressed his specific aggressive and controlling behaviors. The conversation somehow spiraled into him yelling and overly punctuating his words while saying “She (my stepmom). Divorced. ME. It’s public record. LOOK it UP.”
And instead of looking it up, I called my mother.
I think you know by now what she said. My dad had asked her for a divorce, then listed her name as the Plaintiff (AKA the instigator) on the paperwork. When my dad asked my stepmom for a divorce, she likely went and filed it right away because fuck him anyway. So on each of his divorce papers, he is listed as the one who “was divorced” instead of the one initiating.
In other words, pre-planned manipulation. Now he had paperwork to back his wild claims that he is the perpetual victim.
I do not need evidence of his manipulation or despicable behavior to know that he is a person who makes me feel generally like complete shit, but hard facts never hurt.
Hear me on this one: If someone makes you feel like shit, or drained, or tired, or altogether uncertain of your own experience, you’re allowed to let that be all the information you need to walk away.
No need to spend your time referencing internet checklists or consulting the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders).
Sure, hard facts never hurt. In fact, sometimes seeing a bulleted list of abusive behaviors can be just the wakeup you need, as if the universe were snapping its fingers in front of our face like, “Yeah, bitch! He’s trash! *Head bob from side to side*”
But no matter how much research and double checking you do to validate your experience, you still have to decide what you will tolerate.
You still have to have your moment of accepting the unknown, instead of the known.
You still have to trust yourself and throw off the chains of guilt and the roles that society screams are more important than our own wellbeing. “But he’s your father (Father to me has nothing to do with DNA). He’s the only father you’ve got (False, I have two others). I would just hate for you to do something that you’ll regret (by standing up for yourself).”
The real and only question to ask yourself is how do you feel around this person?
Do you daydream that they will get lost at sea or that they finally do something so tangible, so unforgivable, that you can have a “real reason” to walk away?
If someone makes you feel like shit, that’s all the information you need. I promise you, it’s not more complicated than that.
And think of it this way, if you walk away and the abuse worsens, you have even more of an answer.
If you walk away and feel a newfound sense of peace, you have your answer.
If you walk away and feel a sense of dread because they told you how truly incapable of being a human you are, that echo is your answer.
I know my experience is not unique, and that almost hurts more deeply than my own trauma. That there are many people who endure emotional and psychological abuse for a lifetime or worse, generations, is an unacceptable notion.
I can no longer straddle the line of “Mental health advocate who also doesn’t disparage others” because abuse is abuse is abuse and I firmly believe that only loud can fix it. Only loud can help someone else. Only loud can wake up others.
I do believe that people can change and it’s okay to offer them the opportunity to show you. But I also believe that when they show you otherwise, you have no responsibility toward them.
After years of ups and downs and cyclical bullshit, I know that I never again want to ride the merry-go-round that can only ever end up in the same place.
So I won’t.
And you don’t have to either.
Permission to hop off.
Permission to run.
Permission to be loud.
Permission to trust yourself and learn how to trust others.
Permission to create a life that brings you joy, not fear.
Permission to speak your truth, knowing that those who challenge it are not your people.
Permission to dance and laugh without accounting for someone else’s shit mood.
Permission to consider yourself.
Permission to unclench your jaw, relax your shoulders, and exhale.
Permission to be seen.
Permission to live.
Granted.
Loudly yours,
Emily Rose // Miss Magnolia
Half book, half journal, this paperback collection of stories and pointed questions is designed to help you dig deep and shake loose those "ah-ha's" that are buried within you. Because no matter how stuck or scattered you may feel, YOU have all the answers.
The WITRI Journal contains over 75 pages that aim to foster connection back to yourself and tackle complex brainthoughts like self doubt, imposter syndrome, and self acceptance.
Build yourself up by digging into your foundation with this incredible reflective read!
This journal not only aims to support your mental wellness, but that of others as well. 50 cents from every purchase made here on our website will go to a rotating incredible cause. Right now, donations are being made to Moms Demand Action, an organization that fights for common sense gun laws.
Want to learn more about the WITRI Journal? Check out this post for a deeper dive.
Pop one in your cart for yourself or a friend today!