Reading through the comments on my blog entry entitled Don’t Tell Me How I Feel!! got me thinking about the first person in my life who routinely disregarded how I felt – my mother/abuser. I wrote about some of these experiences here. There’s more on this topic that I have not shared yet.
My mother used to laugh when my sister or I got hurt. We learned at a young age that our mother was not the “go to” person if we got hurt. She slammed my hands in the car door so many times that I lost count. I actually believed this was simply “normal” because it happened so often and because my mother did not seem particularly concerned about it. My son is 10 years old with attention issues, and I have somehow managed not to do that to him one time. That’s what made me realize that slamming your kid’s hands in car doors was not “normal.”
My sister stepped on a rusty nail barefoot when she was eight years old. It didn’t even occur to her to tell our mother about it. Instead, she poured a bottle of hydrogen peroxide on it and hoped she would be OK.
One time, I was trying to split open a bagel with a steak knife while holding it in my hand. Nobody had ever thought to tell me that this was dangerous. Sure enough, the blade cut deep into my hand, and then I tore my flesh even more pulling it back out. I was bleeding heavily and got very dizzy, almost passing out. My mother refused to take me to see a doctor for this. To this day, the left side of my ring finger and pinky finger on my left hand is numb. It feels like my hand is perpetually asleep, and it hurts sometimes when my hands get cold. I also have a scar from it.
Another time, my sister was angry at my mother and slammed the sliding van door very hard as I was climbing out. I tried to get out of the way, but it slammed very hard on my temples (right in front of my ears). I was lightheaded, nauseous, and in severe pain, but my mother told me to get over it. We had just arrived at my cousins’ house, and my oldest cousin got impatient with me for not wanting to play.
These are memories that have always been stored in my conscious memory bank. They sucked, but I never really thought of them as abuse. However, reviewing these life events from the perspective of a loving mother makes me shudder!
Photo credit: Hekatekris
So sorry to hear, Faith.
I am so sorry too, Faith. Sending the comfort that was never there for you as a child.
Comfort from another is so healing. I am so sorry that there was none for you. Sending a huge, warm hug.
ruby
Hello, I’ve been lurking for a while and I thought it was time to start talking back. I’m so sorry for all those things. I think this is typical abusive behavior. I learned to be ashamed and hide any illness or injury, and it’s a habit I still haven’t gotten over.
If I so much as coughed, my dad would be furious with me for “trying to get sympathy.” If I had an accident and got injured, I was told that God was punishing me for something bad I did. I had a very easily treatable illness for several years, and my dad was always raging at me about it. I didn’t realize until I was an adult that it was his fault for not getting me treated, not my fault for being sick.
Ouch. It’s amazing to me that you and your sis even survived that nightmare.
There is a book called “Emotional Incest Syndrome” which I read a long time ago. It illustrates how crossing boundaries emotionally has a the potential for life long damage. It looks at parents who use their children as surrogate spouses among other things. One of the ways the abuse works is by getting into your head. Saying things like: “I know you better than you know yourself”, “That didn’t hurt” basically, telling you how you feel and over riding what you actually feel. What you feel is flat out denied out loud by someone bigger and more powerful that you.
Anyway, this book could be worth reading for anyone who has problems acknowledging and embracing their emotions… and allowing them to be.
Peace,
m
I connect the neglect of my parents for my medical care and attention directly to the abuse from my brother, an extension of the denial. Also, it allowed for an added level of secrecy/security for my folks. If I’m not at the doctor’s office, there is less chance of me ‘telling’ what was going on in the home. On the times when did have to go to the doctor, I certainly knew better than to be honest.
The most common statement to me was, “Want me to call the meat wagon to come cut it off?” if I complained about a body part hurting (I had broken toes quite often, I know now it was from both the abuse and also from my clumsiness since “I” was not in my body so much of the time).
I have a difficult time going to the doctor now even as an adult. I wait and wait, trying to heal myself; I repeat the pattern of the past. Eventually, if I do go to the doctor, I am inevitably ‘scolded’ for not coming in sooner; and I still feel the panic/anxiety about the questions being asked, because I worry about being believed or about giving the ‘right’ answer.
I am very sorry to hear that your mother, as part of her abuse, neglected some very significant physical needs for you/your sister. I am pleased that you acknowledge when you feel ill, and that you take care of yourself by going to receive medical care. I will try to follow your good example.
wtr
I can relate to your experiences Faith, and I am so sorry this happened to you and your sister. I think this is where I feel the “hole” left in me by the lack of sympathetic nurturing from my mother. My mother used doctors to unwittingly feed her sexual needs by watching what they did to me in exams and procedures, so I did go to the doctor a lot, but it was for her purposes, and not because of my need. When I was 5, my brother and I had a “go kart” accident, and we were both bleeding from elbows and knees. My mother delighted in inflicting more pain by scrubbing and using alcohol, and all the while, telling us that unless it hurt it wasn’t killing germs. One time when I was seven, I was playing with a coat hanger, and I had it in my mouth, and fell face down on a bed. It cut my throat, and the blood was profuse, but I wouldn’t tell my mother, because I feared what she would do more than just dealing with it myself. I have raised 3 children, and you said it yourself, that having done that, we know what it means to nurture and love them when they are injured. We didn’t get that, we had to do that for ourselves. This was a more recent understanding about an aspect of abuse that I had not seen before. Thank you for sharing your experience with us.
I did think about this before I wrote it.
I have a scar on my left pinkie. When I read you had one also I was told “That makes her my sister.” That is all I know although I know that our therapist has been told that this scar did not come from us burning ourselves with our wood burning set.
I really like this blog. It is so forthright and validating.
My parents often withheld medical treatment, especially when I was a teenager. I remember being yelled at when I was sick to my stomach. I also remember having a horrible, horrible sore throat like nothing I have experienced since. My parents wouldn’t take me to the doctor so I turned on the hot water in the bathroom and breathed in the soothing steam until they screamed at me to get out. I also remember having a horrible case of either bronchitis or pneumonia when I was in high school. I hacked up green mucus for weeks because they wouldn’t take me to the doctor.
For years I thought I was just being a big baby. Then I had my own child and realized that a parent refusing to seek medical treatment or at least offer some basic sympathy (!) for a sick kid is not normal.
That is absolutely terrible!
My mom medically neglected me a lot. She never wanted to take me to the doctor. It wasn’t “bad enough.” I remember one time, I had a fever of 102 and my dad made her take me–turned out, I had bronchitis!
There was another time when I was sick for months. She kept telling me it was just a cold…never mind colds don’t last months. Finally, I got pinkeye and she HAD to take me–turned out my “cold” was an untreated sinus infection. That had somehow caused my pinkeye!
Second time I got pinkeye–she didn’t want to take me because “my eye wasn’t pink enough!”
There was another time something blew into my eye. It kept feeling like something was in there, yet no matter what I did, it wouldn’t come out. I had to plead with her to take me to urgent care because I was afraid something was really wrong. She finally did, complaining the entire time about the cost and that nothing was really wrong with me. I had 4 scratches on my cornea.
It’s difficult now because I can’t discern when I SHOULD go to the doctor, and when I shouldn’t. Like when something is in the beginning stages…should I go or not? I don’t know. Or like when I’m hurt. I don’t know what’s bad enough. I used to self-injure by hitting my head and at least twice, I probably had a concussion. I told my mom this [although I said it was an accident both times], and she expressed virtually no concern whatsoever. o.O
I also had the car door slammed on my hand numerous times but it was by other people in our congregation. It happened when we went out preaching. When I was getting out of the car at around 6-8 a couple of different people slammed the door on my hands at different times. Each time the person glared at me after it happened and while I cried. My mom smiled about it. Adults in this group were very strange, needless to say. I still don’t go to the doctor. I think it’s because I survived so many injuries and illnesses that would require medical care without any care.