Content warning: This story mentions emotional and verbal abuse and suicidal tendencies that may be distressing to some readers.
Sitting in the kitchen on a sunny Friday afternoon, I chatted to my father-in-law, a gentleman with a heart of gold. His deep laugh, like his love, was constant, familiar, and comforting.
But every time we locked eyes, mine stung with tears. I excused myself to privately breathe through a panic attack because my father-in-law’s kind gaze was a painful reminder of losing not just my dad, but mum too.
I was grieving deeply for both my parents. Only, they weren’t dead. They were no longer in my life, and never again would be as I’d cut them out completely six months earlier.
It was a painful decision that took the best part of 30 years to make. I’d spent a lifetime turning myself inside out to tolerate my mum’s narcissistic abuse, my dad’s neglect, their campaign of pressure, intrusion, vitriol and unkindness. As an only child, estrangement was the last thing I wanted but the only way to have peace.
Watch: Complicated grief and knowing when to get help. Post continues after video.
And, that day sitting with my in-laws, the full force of my pain hit me like a freight train. It’s the symptom of having to grieve in secret because society struggles to understand or accept going no contact.
"But she’s your mother."
"You only get one dad."
"You’ll regret it one day."
These words are like molten lava on an open wound, compounding the isolation I feel. If my parents had been tragically killed in a car crash, people would rally round. My grief is tangible, acceptable, expected – out there in the open.
I have cut off my parents, so my grief isn’t valid it seems. It’s often judged because society reveres the mother. Pedestals the father.
But parenting isn’t a free pass to abuse your kids. It gets you extra grace, time, and tolerance from your children. It also means you love your kids unconditionally and love flows unbounded both ways, soothing the harder times. That’s supposed to be the deal, anyway.
But adult children who’ve endured neglect or any form of abuse from their parents often break generational cycles of trauma by going no contact. And it’s super painful.
My grief was particularly tweaked that day at my in-laws because 24 hours earlier, my dad had shown up at my house.
I’d been ill, alone, naked, and asleep in bed when the doorbell kept dinging, completely unprepared to open the door in my dressing gown and come face to face with my dad.
He’d once admitted failing to divorce my mother and get me out of her ‘abusive’ clutches when I was a child. So, a small stubborn streak of hope swooshed through me he’d come to finally be a proper dad.
But like a fossil fuel under constant pressure, my dad had changed form. From someone who could see the damage his inaction had inflicted on me, to sounding just like my mother. Every trace of my real dad had vaporised under years of coercive control, leading him to tell me "you don’t get to have me without your mother."
Within minutes of entering my home it was clear he was there as my toxic narcissistic mother’s flying monkey. On a mission to devastate? Fish for information? Who knows? I’d blocked the pair from being able to contact me by phone, email, social media or have access to me, or my children so I’ll admit I bristled. And though I put the kettle on, I wasn’t very welcoming.
Things began to unravel when I became a mum. My love for my children was unconditional, my protection of their peace total. It fuelled a forceful realisation about my parents.
I had therapy for six years to avoid estrangement, but it became clear my mother had many narcissist traits. Psychologists won’t diagnose a person in their absence, of course, but narcissist traits are very clear cut. My mum’s behaviour placed her far down the extreme end of the spectrum for Narcissistic Personality Disorder.
She will never change, accept responsibility, compromise, listen, apologise, or keep any boundaries. She’s jealous, selfish, lacking in empathy, and unable to love anyone, including me, unconditionally.
Loving my children unconditionally made the conditional nature of my mother’s love obvious. I wasn’t going to inflict my parents on my children. After trying everything else first, including moving 100 miles away to limit contact, I finally cut them off last year.
It truly felt like they had died. But there was no funeral, no stories shared, no collective grief to hold me up me through the unexpected sea of guttural pain. There were no social media tributes, texts from loved ones or time off.
We didn’t pull out photo albums and reminisce. Instead, I took their pictures down and threw them away.
I shoved my pain deep down, went to work and took care of my kids when all I wanted to do was stay in bed all day and cry. Every task felt beyond me, but I put my makeup on, washed my hair and did it all, anyway. My kids never realised what happened. They didn’t miss my parents either.
Only my innermost circle knew I’d cut my parents off. 'Left foot, right foot, breathe' my lovely friend with a heart as big as the moon reminded me gently.
One catalyst for the end came last spring, as I turned 40. Would the next 40 years also be spent at my mum’s mercy? What was the point of staying in contact? To be verbally abused, sworn at, criticised incessantly? To sacrifice my autonomy, continue keeping my mother’s affairs secret and field invasive questions?
I was tired of her faking heart attacks, calling paramedics for attention. Weary of her pretending she was desperately ill to pressure me into meeting her. Of rejecting opportunities, to see the grandkids with my husband because I wouldn’t be there.
Meanwhile, I had anxiety, depression, migraines, and insomnia. Chronic physical pain wracked my body, a common occurrence for those suffering lifelong trauma.
Listen to Fill My Cup where Allira is joined by Clinical Psychologist Dr Rebecca Ray on how to set better boundaries and reminds us why we need to look out for our own needs. Post continues below.
If you’re thinking 'there’s two sides to every story' you are right. I’ve examined my behaviour intensely for a lifetime, and had years of therapy. I asked my mum to go to therapy together once, and she refused. When my dad showed up at my house that day, he said it had been my mum’s idea and I’d rejected it. A total lie.
The reality is I didn’t neglect, abuse, or harass myself for 30 years. I supported the emotional vampire of a human being that is my mother for over three decades, showing grace, forgiveness, olive branches, admitted my mistakes and apologised for things that were not my fault.
But there have been no apologies from their end. Only blame, laid squarely at my feet, with dismissal of what they put me through.
I plucked up the courage to talk to my dad’s brother recently. He and his wife validated what I’d experienced, having personally witnessed my mother’s behaviour for decades. They shared sadness for losing my dad to her 'spell'. They hugged me, validated my grief, and cried with me about the lost decades my parents had denied us contact with each other.
It was powerful and healing and made me realise how much more support like that I needed to heal. If only I could tell the world how I’ve lost my parents, I’d perhaps get advice for how others survived it and soak up kindness normally on offer to the bereaved.
Instead, I journal multiple times a day. I continue my therapy. My amazing husband and close friends hold me up. I try – and – fail not to talk about it all the time because I worry they’ll leave me. I’ve fortified my house with a video doorbell so my husband can deal with unwelcome visitors in the future.
I’m doing what I can, with what I have. When my kids ask me what I looked like at their age, I can’t show them as I don’t have access to any photos of my childhood. My life is one of contradictions and I live in that space in between. Accepting the past, forging a future.
There’s nothing else to do but grieve, accept, heal. Listen to Harry Styles' Matilda on repeat and weep in the car alone till the lyrics don’t hurt so bad anymore.
'You can let it go. You can throw a party full of everyone you know. Not invite your family because they never showed you love. You don’t have to be sorry for leaving and growing up.'
I guess for now, I’ll mother my inner child the same way I do my children. Fiercely, and without conditions. Then, left foot, right foot, breathe...
The author of this story is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous for privacy reasons.
The image used is a stock image.
If you think you may experience depression or another mental health problem, please contact your general practitioner. If you're based in Australia, 24-hour support is available through Lifeline on 13 11 14 or beyondblue on 1300 22 4636.
Feature Image: Getty.
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