I Thought My Toxic Family Was “Normal”
Just because it’s common doesn’t mean it’s okay.
--
I always thought my family was “normal.”
Dad was always at work.
When he wasn’t, he was sleeping or trying to relax — which meant, “don’t bother him.”
Mom was a “homemaker.”
She had a few odd jobs throughout the years but always seemed to mysteriously get fired because “someone” had it out for her.
It was never HER fault.
So, she worked at home, making sure coffee was ready for Dad in the morning and dinner was on the table when he came home after a long day at the plant.
But even though Mom was home all the time, I have no memories of us doing anything together except going to church.
Church was important to my mother because she learned that she could use religion to control us.
After being indoctrinated with fire and brimstone sermons twice a week, my mother convinced us that she had special “gifts” from god that allowed her to hear, see, and know things that the rest of us could not.
A modern-day Moses with the ability to see the future and read our sinful little minds.
She would routinely demonstrate her ability to “speak in tongues” (the alleged ability to speak directly to God through an ancient spiritual language.)
First, her body would start to tremble and shake. Her lips would quiver, and her eyes would roll back into her head. She’d start softly mumbling guttural sounds, which gradually turned into loud, incoherent chants as her arms flailed around violently.
This display always felt offputting to me.
But no one dared question her.
After all, if I was wrong about my suspicion that this was simply a dramatic ploy for attention and power, the consequence of spending the rest of eternity burning in hell was far too much for my 8-year-old brain to bear.
So we all did what we could to appease her.
If not, she’d tell God, and he’d punish us.
My father avoided her at all costs, but he’d never cross her. He’d defend anything she did out of fear of retribution.
Even if that meant being complicit in her narcissistic abuse.
As a child, I was eerily quiet.
Out of sight, out of mind.
I spent most of my time alone in the woods — working on a tree house I could eventually escape to.
At home, rules were strict, and expectations were unrealistic.
Do what you’re told.
Get perfect grades.
Don’t question authority.
Don’t argue.
Don’t complain.
Don’t be needy.
Don’t cry.
Don’t do ANYTHING to irritate mommy and daddy.
And NEVER show emotion.
My parents frequently threatened to send me to an orphanage.
It was the perfect control tactic.
I lived in constant fear of being sent to what my parents described as “a horrible prison for bad kids.”
When I brought this up later as an adult, my mother dismissively scoffed,
“It was just a joke. Do you ALWAYS have to be so dramatic?”
More invalidation.
The better question was,
“Can’t you see how traumatizing that was for 6-year-old me?”
Abandonment is an existential threat for a child. You have no choice but to rely on your parents for survival.
You can’t just go buy food and rent an apartment when you’re seven.
Unfortunately, the threats of abandonment started before I even learned to speak.
My mother often light-heartedly recounted a time when she bought me a Cabbage Patch doll as a toddler.
Instead of giving me the doll, she strapped it into my car seat while I remained stuck in a shopping cart in the parking lot and told me it was my replacement.
She got in the car, closed the door, and acted like she was going to drive off — leaving me behind.
When I began crying hysterically, she scolded me for being ungrateful for the gift.
“I worked so hard to get that doll for you, and all you did was cry, you little brat. You never appreciated anything I did for you.”
As an infant, I was already bruising her fragile narcissistic ego.
Meanwhile, my younger brother was her literal baby doll. She dressed him up and put him on display wherever we went.
He was the “golden” child who could do no wrong. He clung to my mother’s skirt like a used dryer sheet on a cold winter day.
And he cried constantly.
She’d scoop him up protectively in her arms and coo in his face. Then she’d look down at me disapprovingly, asking what I did to make him upset this time.
When I would try similar antics to get attention, I was met with the cliche —
“I’ll give you something to cry about, you little sh*t.”
Apparently, I had rebuffed my mother’s attempts at affection ONCE when I was an infant, or so she claims. It hurt her SO deeply that she was no longer willing to hug me.
And so the narrative emerged:
No matter what I did to try to be “perfect,” I would always be labeled the annoying “problem child,” and my brother would always be the sensitive prince who could do no wrong.
You’ll notice that there is no SHOCKING story of “abuse” here.
I wasn’t molested. My parents weren’t addicts.
Heck, they even stayed together.
Dad worked all the time, which, in his mind, was the extent of his fatherly duties.
Mom made sure there was food in the house.
My brother and I both grew up to be “successful” adults.
It *almost* sounds like the American dream, doesn’t it?
And, in light of all the tragedy going on in the world today, it feels a bit trivial.
But, underlying these family dynamics is intense emotional pain that is all too common in our culture.
Wounds that cannot be seen because they were not inflicted against our bodies, but rather, against our minds.
Family who has no interest in seeing us for who we really are but only for who they need us to be to fit into their narrative.
“Love” that is tenuously conditional.
Healthy emotions are forcibly suppressed in exchange for survival.
They said, “We did the best we could.”
Then, continued to normalize gaslighting, lying, deflection, and manipulation.
THIS is the BEST you could do?
After years of trying to build a healthy, authentic relationship with my parents and brother, I finally let them go because I was no longer willing to play the toxic role they assigned to me.
It hurt like hell.
Today, I see it as a blessing.
This was where the cycle of emotional abuse ended for me, and healing began.
I don’t think it ever gets “easy,” but if you’ve dealt with similar family dynamics, I want to reiterate that your need for emotional expression, support, and validation is normal and healthy.
Abuse in any form is not okay, and you don’t have to tolerate it.
It’s harder when it’s family.
We want to give them every possible chance to change.
But some people are unwilling or incapable.
Accepting my parents for who they really are was the first step in my healing journey.
Acknowledging that I deserved better and that I didn’t need them to love me in order to be happy came next, followed by setting healthy boundaries, a ton of self-care, and re-parenting myself.
You deserve to be seen, heard and loved — for who you really are.
If you are hurting — please know that you can heal.
It will take time, but it’s possible.
You’re not alone in this.
It will get better.
Sending you love and positive vibes :)
