A couple of months before my wedding, my mother told me that I was no longer a part of the family. She disowned me because my husband and I had decided not to invite my brother to our big day. As a result, neither of my parents attended, and we haven’t spoken since. This year marks the 20th anniversary of that decision.
My father fell madly in love with my mother – abandoning his seminary studies to court her. Sadly, she didn’t feel the same way, but was forced to marry him by my grandmother, who thought marrying into a highly regarded family would ‘tame’ her daughter. Marriage, however, did not stop my mother from seeing her boyfriends. She dated multiple men through her work as a short-hand typist, and just a couple of weeks after they wed, my dad discovered her in their marital bed with another man. This cycle would repeat itself over and over in their marriage – I know, because she took me along to their houses and made me promise to keep her secrets. I once had to get out of my mum’s car, run across a busy road, and get into her boyfriend’s car so she could continue to outrun my dad who was tailing her.
Growing up in our family was like walking on eggshells. I always had to gauge my mum’s mood and alter my behaviour to suit her – if she was cranky at something, she would take it out on me. My brother, meanwhile, was respected. I was seven when I began to realize I was being treated differently than my brother. My dad, for whatever reason, thought it was appropriate to put on a hard-core pornographic movie while I was snacking after school. He seemed to be my parents’ favorite, but I wasn’t sure why. Admittedly I had my hunches, but these wouldn’t be confirmed until much later.
Every evening my mum would tell me what an awful husband my father was. However, she’d then threaten to stop loving me if I revealed her affairs. She said I’d be responsible for breaking up the family. She made me her best friend and confidant, but this had two profound effects on my childhood. At times I felt trusted and loved by her, but if I did something that upset my brother, she would blurt out hurtful comments, such as: ‘Your sister is evil like her father’. These moments sent me spinning into confusion and betrayal: Was I not her friend? Had I not kept all her secrets? Was I evil?
But by keeping her secrets, I also felt alienated from my father and brother – I sometimes felt like an outsider in my own family. My father would tell me I was in cahoots with my mother – that I was a slut and a whore like her. My brother, witnessing my dad repeatedly taking my mother back after her affairs were exposed, would say I was a bitch for being close to and supporting her. But on the days mum had a go at me, he’d then take her side. I never knew where I stood.
As I got older and started working, I began to see a counsellor as I’d realized how abnormal and dysfunctional my family life was. I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the time my brother and I came home to red wine on the walls and my mother face down in her own vomit. Or the afternoon where my dad, for whatever reason, thought it was appropriate to put on a hard-core pornographic movie while I was snacking after school. I wanted to unpack all this and more with a trained professional as opposed to just writing my thoughts down in a diary. She outlined two choices: to teach my family how to treat me, or to cease all contact with them. To cut them off completely felt drastic, so I opted for the former. However, my attempts to set boundaries met with repeated failures.
For example, I requested that we all keep our private lives private. But mum continually probed me for every little detail of my life. She wanted to know who I was seeing and whom I had sexual relations with. I found out later, she would use this against me. She once told me that whenever they drove past my house, she would crane to see into my backyard and through my glass sliding door to ‘spy’ on me and see what I was up to. Because she told me so much, she expected the same in return. But, I didn’t want to know about her sex life with dad, or at least how bad it was and how bad he was in bed. She would often purposely cause rows with my dad only once I was home – it would go like this: when I walked into the door there would be silence. Shortly after she would ask why my dad hadn’t done something she’d asked him to do. Then a row would ensue about how lazy he was and what a crap husband he had always been. When I wasn’t living with them and I was on the phone with her, I got into the habit of ending the call when she began to get to their personal details. It became toxic, but still I didn’t cut them off as I still hadn’t realized how dysfunctional the situation was.
That only changed when I was getting married as we didn’t want any drama to ruin our big day. I made the decision not to invite my brother because he always got drunk and thought nothing of calling me names at any and every event we had been to. My parents hadn’t made any public scenes, so we thought it would be safer to have them there. Obviously, this enraged my mother and we’ve been estranged ever since.
Granted, over the years there have been a few phone calls – one particular instance was when my dad was in the hospital and in a bad way so I went to see him. But my mum didn’t speak to me. I’ve also heard she likes to keep tabs on me through others, yet we have no real relationship to speak of. Naturally, this has left me with mixed emotions over the years. When my kids were little, for example, we could have used some help. I’ve always been transparent with my kids about the situation but occasionally, I wish that my parents had been involved as grandparents to them. Then I remind myself that the reality would be much worse than not having them around.
In latter years, my aunt confirmed one of my longest-held suspicions – that everyone also thought that my brother wasn’t my father’s son. Now, I live miles from my parents and have forged relationships with extended family abroad. They’re nice people and treat me with kindness, respect and generally try and love me to make up for what I’ve missed out on. Because although I can accept that my parents will never really know who I am nor love me for it, I will always carry the regret and shame of my failed relationship with them. I’d have given anything to have a ‘normal’ family. But not all parents fit the mould and can love us unconditionally.
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