Used as a Weapon

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I think one of the hardest things to admit is how deeply I was used.

After I left hospital, vulnerable and trying to rebuild my life, I had some work done on the house. My mother suggested someone to do the bathroom, but they didn’t call back. So I chose someone else — my friend’s dad. He was kind, affordable, and did nothing wrong.

But she couldn’t handle that.
That I made a decision without her.
That I trusted someone other than her.
That I didn’t need her.

So she began picking him apart — his work, his reliability, his integrity. And eventually, he left the job. I didn’t understand why at the time, but now I do: he saw her for what she was, and wanted no part in it.

And then came the next step:
Taking him to court.

Not because it was right. Not because I believed he deserved it. But because she said it was the right thing to do. And I was still so lost. I’d just come out of hospital, I was trying to be a father, open a shop, get my footing again. So I let her lead.

I even delivered the court letter to his house myself.

And I’ve carried the shame of that moment for years.

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But the shame doesn’t belong to me.
It belongs to the woman who used me — her own son — as a weapon to preserve her ego.

She made me betray my values in the name of loyalty.
She made me feel like I was protecting something noble, when really I was defending her image at the cost of my integrity.
And worse, she enjoyed it. She enjoyed seeing me vulnerable, compliant, in her grip.

That’s not love. That’s something else. Something far more disturbing.

And I see now that she’s probably the biggest reason I went psychotic.
She never nurtured me. She only managed me.

And in the moment I needed care the most — when I was trying to rise from rock bottom — she made herself the centre of my story again.

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She visited me every day in hospital. And I used to think that meant something.

But now, I realise she was there to keep me sick.
Because a sick son is a controllable son.
Because as long as I was dependent, she had a purpose.
Because she couldn’t handle the version of me that might live freely, truthfully, without her.

It’s no wonder I find it hard to trust.
It’s no wonder I project my unmet inner child onto others.
It’s no wonder I’ve spent decades trying to figure out what’s wrong with me — when what’s “wrong” was what I had to become to survive her.

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I didn’t deserve that.
No child does.

And if this post sounds like hate, that’s because some things deserve to be hated.

What she did wasn’t just a mistake.
It was a pattern. A legacy. A form of slow destruction wrapped in maternal performance.

And I’m done carrying the guilt for that.
I’m done protecting her reputation at the cost of my healing.

I see it now.

I was used.

But I’m not hers anymore.