The Insidious Nature of My Mother

It’s been almost a month since I made the final decision to cut contact with my mother.

There’s still a small part of me — the innocent, hopeful inner child — that wants to believe she respected the boundary out of care. But I know that’s not true. I’ve seen too much. I know exactly who she is now.

She thrives in chaos.
She creates it.
And without it, her world is meaningless.

That realisation has been both devastating and liberating.

There’s a unique kind of pain that comes from understanding your mother has used your vulnerability against you. Not just once — but over and over. As if your openness was a blueprint for how to hurt you best.

Her need for control was never satisfied with just setting the rules — she needed to crush anything unpredictable, anything real, anything alive.

And yet, somehow, for years, I made excuses.

Maybe she was just misunderstood.
Maybe she really did love me in her own skewed way.
Maybe there was a method to the madness.

But now? No.
What she’s done isn’t love. It’s a pathology.
A deeply rooted, likely lifelong disturbance. One she never chose to face.

She painted herself as the victim while orchestrating the chaos.
She suppressed my voice.
She distorted my reality.
She manipulated my ability to trust — in others and in myself.

And perhaps the most tragic part?
She did it under the guise of love.

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People speak about physical abuse — and it is, of course, horrific. But in some ways, emotional abuse is more insidious. There are no bruises to show. You question yourself constantly. You grow up unable to fully enjoy life, love, or connection — because you’re still trying to figure out what’s real.

I believe that suppressing someone’s authenticity, joy, and connection to life is a crime — one that cuts deeper than most people realise.

And the world doesn’t want to see it.
They don’t want to believe that mothers can be cruel, calculated, emotionally disturbed.

But they can be.
And mine was.

Now that I’ve created distance, I can see it all.
The illness. The addiction to commotion. The psychological manipulation.
And the tragic, enduring cost to my own life.

But I’ve survived.
And now, I’m beginning to live.

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