When I acted out as a teenager, my parents sent me away. Twice. Once to a home for runaway teens and once to an inpatient psych ward because they “just couldn’t control me.”
They couldn’t control me.
Of course I ran away. Who wants to live with people who are constantly disappointed in everything you do?
I feared my parents. I didn’t respect them. Respect is hard to come by when someone is screaming an inch from your face or smacking you around because you didn’t do exactly what they wanted.
The other night, while painting our staircase, I suddenly remembered my mom chasing me upstairs when I was about 15 or 16. She grabbed my ankle, yanked me down, and started hitting me as hard as she could. My dad had to pull her off. For days, I replayed that memory, trying to remember what I’d done that was so horrible. Then I realized something.
It doesn’t fucking matter what I did.
Nothing justified that.
My parents never asked what was wrong. And honestly, even if they had, I probably wouldn’t have told them.
Years ago, a therapist tried role-playing with me to demonstrate how easily I could open up to my mother. I couldn’t stop laughing. Was I seriously supposed to imagine my mom saying, “Oh honey, I’m here for you. Tell me what’s hurting.” When I explained that my actual mother would probably slap me across the face, my therapist insisted she’d never do that because she loved me.
Really, lady?
I started hurting myself at 13. Not because I wanted to manipulate anyone, but because I didn’t know what to do with everything going on inside my head. Physical pain became easier to manage than emotional pain.
And yes, I wanted attention.
I wanted THEIR attention.
Instead, I got lectures, teasing, and accusations that I was doing it for attention, as though needing your parents to notice you’re hurting is some terrible character flaw. It took becoming a parent myself to understand how little I was actually asking for.
But Words Hurt
The summer before my senior year, I had to take algebra in summer school because I’d spent most of my junior year skipping class, running away, and spending time with a girlfriend my parents absolutely hated.
I was trying to figure out who I was, and I was terrified of men for reasons I still don’t entirely understand. My girlfriend wasn’t exactly healthy for me either, but she told me she loved me. At the time, that was enough.
One afternoon, my dad picked me up from summer school. I sat in the backseat because it felt safer.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, he said something I’ll never forget:
“Jenny, I wanna tell you something important, and mark my words. If you choose to live this lesbian lifestyle, you will no longer be considered my daughter.”
I remember wishing he’d just hit me instead. It wasn’t about whether he accepted my girlfriend. It was realizing my own father was willing to stop being my father because of who I loved. A few years later, he even told me he’d accept me “bringing home a Black man, but not a woman.” Apparently, parental love came with terms and conditions.
And that kind of hurt doesn’t just disappear.
Fast-Forward 23 Years
When I met my husband, I was so excited to tell my parents I had a boyfriend. My best friend convinced me to call my mom at work, on speakerphone, because surely she’d be thrilled.
Spoiler alert: She wasn’t.
My parents were initially standoffish toward D, probably wondering whether this whole “straight thing” would stick. Meeting his three-year-old daughter at our first family dinner probably didn’t help their little brains process everything. Well, here we are, roughly 23 years later. So, they can both suck it.
Our marriage hasn’t been perfect. We’ve been through things I wouldn’t wish on anyone, and maybe our story would’ve ended differently had his second stroke never happened.
But we’ve made it this far. And through everything, my husband has never come close to saying the cruel, ugly things my parents have said to me.
He respects me. They never have.
Break The Cycle In Half
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about adult children who go no-contact with their parents. Part of me completely understands it. Another part thinks about how devastated I’d be if my own kids stopped talking to me. But my oldest son recently said something that stuck with me:
“Yes, but you care about us, you respect us, and you’re always there, no matter what. You’d never say some of the things Grandpa and Grandma have said to you, Mom. That’s just not you.”
He’s right. My kids haven’t had perfect childhoods. Not even close. But they’ve never had to question whether their parents give a shit about them. And please, spare me the “it was a different time” excuse. So what?
You can unlearn whatever the hell you want.
I’ve spent decades making excuses for my parents. Excusing the insults, the humiliation in front of my children, the cruel comments disguised as jokes, and the complete lack of accountability.
Not once have they acknowledged what they put me through, much less apologized.
And maybe they never will. A few nights later, while cleaning out my attic, I started crying. Not just crying. Ugly-crying. The kind where you can’t even explain what’s happening because you’re too busy trying to breathe. And suddenly, I understood:
I was grieving a mother I never really had.
Not the mother who raised me. Not the woman who screamed at me, frightened me, or made me feel like I was never enough. I was crying for the mother I’d spent my whole life wishing she could be. The one who listens. Who comforts. Who loves her children without conditions. Who makes them feel safe enough to be exactly who they are.
The mom I try every day to be for my kids.
That’s the mom I wanted.
And at 51 years old, I think I’m finally accepting that she’s probably never coming.
