In the confines of my garden, I found myself on my hands and knees, desperately trying to catch my pet rabbit that had scampered under the raised wooden floor of our shed. My mother, who was assisting me, bent down to inspect beneath the structure. Suddenly, my bunny bolted out, causing my mother to jump back and strike her nose against the shed. A torrent of tears erupted from her. I instinctively reached out to comfort her, only to inadvertently amplify her distress. After a few minutes of inconsolable sobbing, she seized my arm and declared, “You are the reason I am still alive. Never leave me. Without you, I wouldn’t want to live.” At that moment, the stark realization dawned upon me: she was emotionally blackmailing me. Her dependence weighed heavily upon my young shoulders, one bearing the burden of her emotional support and the other her tears. I was a mere three-year-old child.
My arrival into the world was far from conventional. My mother was unaware of her pregnancy until the onset of labor. She had long assumed that her terminal illness, tuberculosis, rendered her incapable of conceiving. Yet, there I was, a living testament to the fallibility of such assumptions. My mother was unmarried, and my father swiftly abandoned us after my birth. Heartbroken and embittered, she projected her resentment toward men onto me. From that point forward, I became her emotional crutch, and she, my lifelong burden. In retrospect, I would describe her behavior as excessively clingy and overly reliant on me—a realization that would only dawn on me much later in life.
As I grew, I accepted the absence of a father and friendships as the norm. I spent countless hours in my mother’s sickroom, occasionally being read to by her. She demanded exclusivity over my time, and any attempts at protest were met with an outpouring of despair, as if her poor health and solitude were a cloak she could don at will. One of the few positive outcomes I can attribute to her is the love of books and language she instilled in me. Yet, on those days spent under her watchful eye, I yearned for the companionship of dolls or friends. Instead, I resorted to endless cycles of dressing and undressing her feet, which protruded from beneath the covers. In retrospect, the entire situation seems unsettling. It fostered an unhealthy atmosphere for two primary reasons. Firstly, my mother’s tuberculosis was highly contagious, transmitted through the air, posing a constant threat of infection. Secondly, her incessant chain-smoking, consuming over 30 cigarettes daily, meant that I was subjected to secondhand smoke.
As fate would have it, I too contracted tuberculosis at the tender age of four. While it was not the full-blown disease, it manifested as a “shadow on the lung,” causing significant weight loss. Consequently, I was sent to an open-air school, designed to promote fresh air and ventilation for children with disabilities. Despite my limited prior experience with other children, I seamlessly integrated into my new environment. The mere presence of others brought me immense joy, offering an escape from the confines of my mother’s illness.
However, my mother made it unequivocally clear that I was forbidden from making friends. She clung tenaciously to the notion that she had exclusive rights over my time and emotions. Any hint of resistance was met with a barrage of guilt trips, her poor health and loneliness serving as potent weapons. She held these emotional chains over me, effectively trapping me in a suffocating web.
As I entered adolescence, I reached a breaking point. Her suffocating control had become unbearable. Fueled by newfound experiences with boys, I rebelled, dating every boy I could. When my mother discovered my defiance, she erupted in fury. I recognized her jealousy—she feared I would find someone I might love, someone who could potentially take me away from her. “Men can’t be trusted. You’ll be much happier living with me,” she would insist. Yet, I no longer cared. I yearned to break free from her oppressive grip. It was during this period that I encountered my first husband. Through him and his family, I gained a glimpse into a vastly different reality, one devoid of the emotional turmoil that had plagued my childhood. I began to confront my hangups surrounding illness and dysfunctional families. Despite his qualities as a son-in-law, I now realize that I married him as a means of escape.
A mere six months after my marriage, my mother made the dramatic decision to emigrate to Australia. She theatrically proclaimed that she had no reason left to live in our country. She desperately wished for me to join her, guilt-tripping me by painting a rosy picture of our life together in a foreign land. As expected, my first marriage dissolved after seven years—a development that I never regretted. It exposed me to the dynamics of a healthy family—balanced affection and respect among its members. It was a revelation, demonstrating that such relationships were possible.
Ten years after my first marriage, I remarried and soon felt ready for motherhood. I had begun to process my dysfunctional childhood, and the physical distance between my mother and me created an emotional buffer. As time went on, my family expanded, and despite our strained relationship, I desired for my mother to meet her granddaughter. My husband and I ventured to Australia with our young daughter, but the visit only reinforced what I already knew. My mother remained emotionally distant, her attention solely focused on me, disregarding my child. I was devastated and swiftly returned home with my family.
For many years, my relationship with my mother continued to negatively impact my life. She passed away on Valentine’s Day 1987 in Australia. Despite her prolonged illness spanning four decades, her death was sudden and unexpected. Coincidentally, I had spoken to her on the phone the preceding night—an uncharacteristic occurrence since our communication was typically limited to birthdays and Christmas. An inexplicable urge had compelled me to reach out to her that evening.
While I experienced a sense of loss, having known her my entire life, I was not consumed by grief. I recognized her illness but couldn’t escape the lingering feeling that she should have been the one protecting me—after all, I was just a child.
Although my childhood journey deviated from the conventional path, I have since forged a fulfilling life. It is no longer defined by dysfunction but rather by happiness and contentment. Surrounded by a loving family, I found my passion in my career, became an active member of my community, and was even honored with an MBE by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. My story serves as a testament to the possibility of transforming one’s path, regardless of the obstacles or people encountered along the way.
