Rust.
A Personal Essay on the Normalization of Abuse
I have one memory in life of my father crying. I don’t believe my brother ever witnessed such an anomaly. Once I asked my mom if she’d ever seen my dad cry. In their 30 years of marriage, she told me there are two occasions where she thought she might have heard him cry. Both of these instances took place when she was speaking to him on the phone: once when his mother (my grandma) died, and once after a long SWAT team stand-off that was very close to ending with suicide by cop. So he never did this in front of her directly. But he cried in front of me once.
I can picture him sitting on the edge of my bed, holding my hand, voice high and shaking. It terrified me to see my father act this way. His meek tone chilled me to my core. I was thirteen. He was asking if anyone had hurt me, if there was something I needed to tell him. He was begging me to please just admit what was wrong. Why was I hurting myself? Why did I do the things I did?
Dad, from the pit of my soul, there is honestly nothing I wanted more in that moment than to give you a clear answer- anything to make that strange, unnerving scene end. I wanted so badly to reassure him, tell him I was okay, and make him believe me. But at the time, I genuinely had no answers. As frustrating, scary, and unsatisfactory as it was, “I don’t know” was the best response I could give as to why I was showing signs of an abuse victim, and it killed me. I didn’t know why.
The self harm he was referring to began when I was in elementary school (maybe earlier, it’s hard to say) and slowly progressed to the dire point it was at then. He was talking about the “picking” as my family referred to it; the non-stop picking at my skin, including my arms, face, hair, eyelashes, eyebrows, eyes, and nails. I was riddled with scars and scabs. I had bald patches and constant eye infections. I had no eyelashes or eyebrows. He was also speaking of the unceasing trembling, the daily and nightly bouts of crying, the scratching, the insomnia. I was no longer able to function normally. So what was wrong? Why was I acting this way? It must have been heartbreaking to look at me and wonder if some horrible, traumatic event caused this. I know he believed that I was intentionally keeping secrets. I wasn’t. I genuinely didn’t know or understand what was wrong with me. Why I was coming undone at the seams. It wasn’t until my adult life that I had an inkling of what was going on. And even now, I’m still figuring things out.
When I was a kid, I thought everything was normal. I felt safe. I believed my family acted how all other families did based on my friends, TV, and books. No one ever hit me or touched me inappropriately. I loved school, I played sports, I had lots of early friendships. We lived in a two story house in a suburb; one mom, one dad, and two kids. I thought I was scratching at my skin by choice, not compulsion. By the end of elementary school, I had to acknowledge it was compulsory. I thought I just had a quirk, or maybe I was just weird. I tried SO HARD to stop it. I felt like such a failure throughout late elementary school as the self mutilation became worse rather than better. I was scolded for it constantly. I felt shame, inadequacy, confusion; it was just something wrong with me. I got better at hiding it as I got older, though the problems became worse.
As I study early childhood development, I’ve begun looking back at my own development. Lately, I’m realizing that there are many aspects of my childhood that I would definitely label as traumatic if it happened to a child in my classroom today. Some of the behaviors I exhibited were likely the result of this trauma. It’s clear to me now that my upbringing, although I felt was happy and healthy—
{ a belief that want to emphasize and which I am thankful for; this sense of security, the positive memories, and the adults who supported me early in life are the reason I survived and thrived }
—my upbringing was also shadowed by constant, immense stress.
As I share pieces of this with others and continue to pursue my career supporting young children, there are subtle but undeniable instances of abuse that I'm now realizing were present for large periods of my life. Admitting this has been shaken my identity. It’s an ongoing perspective shift and something that I’m still processing. I was never a victim. I genuinely believed I had the best life anyone could possibly have. I had so much gratitude for my family: we were healthy, cared for, my parents did the best they could. But to continue to believe that everything that went on in my house was okay, would be a dire mistake. I lived for so long under the illusion that many serious problems in our family were entirely my fault. My doing. This thought process had a devastating affect on my mental wellbeing and the way I perceived myself. The summer before I left for college at 18, I was at a point of such despair, anger, and disgust at who I was, that I often contemplated and several times nearly went through with suicide. Until very recently, I insisted (to myself, to others, to my family) that I was never abused in any way or form.
But gradually, as I came to realize some of my experiences could not possibly be rationalized as normal or healthy, and that some of my behaviors were likely a reaction to trauma, I was eventually able to admit that some of that trauma was in fact abuse that went unchecked for years. There were adults in my early life who committed child neglect, manipulation, and extreme emotional and verbal abuse. Putting these thoughts into words, acknowledging all that happened as real and unacceptable, is therapeutic. It helps me understand parts of myself and I believe it makes me more prepared and receptive as an educator.
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The Beginning.
Today, it baffles me how I genuinely thought certain actions were at all normal. Part of the problem, I realize, was that I was deceived into thinking I was the issue. There are many, many problems that I fully believed were a direct result of my shortcomings and decisions as a child. Issues and responsibilities that, in reality, a child has no control over, but can be convinced she does. One of the hardest of these issues to reconcile, and the first I want to break down, is that of my mom’s animal hoarding. No one ever diagnosed or even acknowledged these actions as hoarding behavior, but given her extensive (and untreated) history of anxiety and depression, it’s not surprising that animal hoarding is a known outgrowth of these conditions. The true beginning of this animal stockpiling was the purchase of a black lab puppy back in the year 2000. It was within a year of her second pregnancy. She always said dogs were her medium for stress relief. This puppy was followed by the rapid accumulation of about a dozen more dogs, 3 indoor cats (and several dozen outdoor cats), rabbits, fish, guinea pigs, reptiles, birds, and eventually the purchase of a 3-acre hobby farm to keep all these animals and many more.
Sam, Abby, Daisy, Casey, Cody, Buckaroo, Angel, Moose, Sophie, and now Hank are the names of each dog that I can remember, but I know there were others. I do not remember each frog, bird, rabbit, and fish. But I try to remember the dogs. They were purchased (on average) about every twelve months; we had up to 5 dogs at a time. The worst period of this hoarding occurred when I was in elementary school. My mom would usually use us kids as a means to justify her impulse. She would ask on random afternoons if we wanted to go play with puppies, if we wanted to “add him/her to our family”, and this would be her excuse to bring the next dog home. I genuinely loved each of the dogs: we never adopted adult animals, so we always raised them from puppyhood. We named them, slept in bed with them, watched them grow...
Looking back, there was no way they were properly cared for. They were untrained. Aggressive. Hyper. Our dogs were hit or kicked by everyone in the household to punish bad behavior. It’s something I still struggle admitting. As a child I didn’t see this as wrong. I was taught that was the correct way to treat animals. Also, there was simply not enough space for so many pets and children in a house. They were large dogs: shepherds, labs, hounds, collies.. The environment was dirty, and hectic. The dogs would attack each other. The barking never ceased. There was a distinct pattern for about a decade that when the stress and chaos of the home reached a certain point, it was time to put a dog down. Mom would consistently make me choose which one to have euthanized. She told us it was a child’s job and my brother was too young to make those decisions. I can hear her voice repeating, “You wanted all these dogs but now they’re fighting... They’re not happy anymore.... They’ll be happy up in Heaven, which one do you want to send? ...No, they would be sad if we gave them to another family or put them in a cage at the rescue.” She was very adamant about not giving the dogs away. The ones we put down were always young dogs. Under five years old to be sure. Although this was a recurrent event and Mom attempted to downplay it, each time this happened was extremely difficult for me. The worst time was having to choose between the lives of Cody and Buckaroo, two 1-year-old males who fought constantly. I remember I was locked in my room as a punishment, bawling for hours until I made a decision to kill one. I had recurring nightmares about it. I had to kill a dog every year until I was about 10. I was told the situation was my fault; their deaths my burden alone to bare. It’s hard now to look back at what I participated in, forced or not, and attempt to excuse or forgive those actions.
The upkeep of our home and the welfare of myself and younger brother were also issues I believed fell upon my shoulders at a very young age. During the weekends and summers in our mom’s care, we survived on 3 meals: McDonald’s happy meals, Poptarts, or microwaveable mac and cheese. This goes without exaggeration.
These were the “choices” we were given and then blamed for later on. The times when Dad discovered that we had Poptarts for every meal that day, he would get angry. It was a common screaming match between my parents. At six years old, it’s difficult to determine who the anger is directed at, or why, or what you did wrong. Mom insisted that we would eat nothing else. I felt confused and guilty. I didn’t have the prudence to realize that giving children this young total autonomy over their diet and nutrition was irrational. The fact that I couldn’t cook my own meals or even protest never crossed my mind. I didn’t know this was a form of neglect. That the “choices” were just the easiest and most convenient for a caretaker who simply didn’t have the energy to care.
A majority of the household responsibilities fell to me during this time. I looked after and played with my brother. I helped out a lot with the dogs, the chores, and even feeding us most days. 6 out of 7 days a week, Mom was “sick”. Of course, as an adult I now know this was a symptom of her depression. As a child I witnessed her sleep most of the time.
The regrettable truth is, our cars were perpetually filled to the knees with trash from all the fast food. Our house was a tornado of clothes, feces, and garbage. These spaces were seldom clean. I internalized this as acceptable. We cleaned if and only if we knew company was coming over.
When I complained of infestations in my room -because there was food everywhere- I was accused of lying or being paranoid. I started believing I was seeing and hearing things. That the ants in my bed, windowsill, and floor were not really there, that the buzzing I heard of wasps and house/fruit flies were non existent. My brown carpet moved, my skin crawled and I was told repeatedly that I was being ridiculous.
It feels like pity-party; like an unending sob story except nothing is gained from this retelling. The purpose is to recount, process, and affirm what happened that I remember about my early life. It does feel like a list of complaints. It feels like I’m unjustified in detailing these events. It feels like I should have done something. But this is for myself above anyone else, to serve as a reminder that my brother and I were just children. Our welfare was not my fault alone.
There was high stress in the home. This stress displayed itself in unhealthy ways such as vulgar screaming matches, adults throwing and hitting things. I whole-heartedly believed that I was the sole piece that kept my parents’ fragile marriage together. The screaming was “just our family’s way of release” I was explicitly told it was healthy to treat family members like that because, unlike friends, family were the ones you could show your true feelings. You could speak (and yell) your mind to (and at) them.
Whenever my parents had an exceptionally explosive argument, Mom would take my brother and I in the car and just drive. I would cry. Or she would say things to make me cry intentionally. Then she’d put me on the phone to beg my father not to divorce “us”.
I know my mom suffered from mental illness of one form or another. I knew she was treated on and off for depression my entire life. But I don’t think I, she, or my father realized how acute it was. How the anxiety and mood swings showed themselves in different forms. This, coupled with her mistrust of healthcare professionals and erratic use of medications, worsened her health and her ability to care for us. This is not to say she didn’t have good days. Sometimes she would cook a full dinner on a whim, sometimes she would sing, spend the whole day on a gardening project, or take us somewhere special. I treasured those glimpses of light and love. But those days were rare. She could never hold a job and, besides, she had to be present for my brother. Being trapped at home was hard for her. My father simply checked out when he was at home. I had a close relationship with him. He made sure we ate full suppers, brushed our teeth, took a bath. Yet I think dealing with mental illness, a child with a severe disability, extreme debt, a stressful job, was all too much. He looked for any excuse to not be home. He was someone I clung to for support and I valued his time above all else. But, if I’m honest with myself, his neglect caused my brother and I lots of pain. He allowed things to go on that shouldn’t have. He left us in the care of someone who desperately needed help.
With much more physical distance and time now between my childhood and the present, it’s obvious that many situations (too many to recount here) I felt responsible for were really out of my control. It provides little relief knowing that it was actually carefully tailored lies which led me to believe I was to blame for marital problems, the health and safety of our home, the wellbeing of another young child who had a disability as well as all the animals packed into the home. It was blatant manipulation. It was emotional abuse and child neglect.
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Other Control Tactics.
The last part of my early years I feel the need to scrutinize is the dynamic of psychological punishment that was implemented as a means of control. I believe it was this foundation of fear that guaranteed my complacency and also explains behavior patterns that I see in myself to this day.
Crying was a major offense and an automatic punishment. It made my mom incredibly angry to see me cry. To clarify, I was never a child who had fits or tantrums. I would never have dared to stomp my feet, yell, or scream, even if the adults did. I was a quiet crier. Nonetheless, it escalated things dramatically if she saw redness in my eyes or heard a sniffle. Avoiding crying would have been in my best interest but to my (and her) frustration I cried all the time. I didn’t want to, obviously, but couldn’t help it. Mom insisted no one cried as much as me, and I believed her. I absolutely thought that I was weak and overly emotional... but eventually, seeing as I could not stop, I just accepted it. I perceived it as abnormal and unhealthy to cry, but it’s just what I did.
As crying was a punishable offense, it goes to say that physical comfort was rare. Ironically, I’m overly affectionate toward my partner at home. In my classroom, I’m the first teacher to offer open arms, cuddles, and coos when children are hurt or upset. Sometimes I wonder if it’s an unmet need that presents itself in adulthood. Either way, memories of physical affection (I.e. hugs, comfort, cuddling) were virtually non-existent and truly sound weird to imagine.
In my opinion, the most impactful punishment that was used was isolation. I was locked in my room for untold hours as a small girl. I was shut in not only as a punishment, but also simply for being too bothersome. Too intrusive, too loud, too hyper.
Although I know there was a time when I slept just fine in my own bed, suddenly when I was around age 7 or 8, my mom insisted we all co-sleep. My brother, my mom, and I would sleep together in my parents’ bed, or on the floor of the living room. But it was very, very common that I would be kicked out. Often it was due to something I said that upset my mother. I have memories of crying, begging to stay together. The punishment was that I would have to walk through the dark house, up to the second floor, and find my bedroom alone. Again, the act of sleeping alone was not so unbearable, except when it was a form of banishment.
I began self-isolating (pretending it was a choice hurt much less than feeling hated). I became obsessed with my schoolwork, sports, art. These were some of the few activities that elicited praise and simultaneously kept me out of my mom’s hair. I gravitated toward activities that made me feel good about myself and worked obsessively at them. Through her actions, my mom successfully created an environment in which I was motivated to study and behave, while subsequently being terrified to step out of line.
All this was achieved without the use of corporal punishment, grounding, or taking away rewards like television and games. I compared myself to other children at school, who reported they were commonly punished in these ways. I didn’t possess the vocabulary to explain that threats, isolation, and manipulation were the most frequent methods of behavior control used in our household. In my mind, therefore, I was rarely in punished. I was simply alone and cried a lot. For a period of time, there was a balance of harmony in our household. I became better at navigating the expectations of both my parents. However, this time was also the onset of what later developed into extreme anxiety, paranoia, self-mutulation, and depression.
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Reciprocation and Toxicity.
Shortly before middle school, made the choice to stop saying “I love you” to my mom. I don’t remember what prompted the decision (maybe it was a way of attempting to have a form of autonomy, maybe it was unconscious resentment) but this little protested lasted for many years without falter. There was a never ending power-struggle between my mother and me. This was perhaps the onset of that struggle as I entered young adulthood. I don’t know why I was so stubborn on the issue of not saying “I love you”; after all, we said it pretty non-affectionately. It was an unconscious phrase said at designated times like leaving for school, and bidding each other goodnight. For some reason I was unbudging.
Unfortunately, this first real instance of defiance triggered an era of much more direct, verbal attacks from my mom. Her manipulation shifted to humiliation, malicious names, and threats; each intended to chip away at my self-worth.
I was never grounded. No one took away my phone. The threats I faced were not behavior-related consequences, but forms of blackmail designed to ostracize and intimidate a young girl. The coercions she used included preventing me from going to school, sending me to therapy, and defaming me to other family members. Mom would wait for quiz and test dates at school to keep me home; a constant reminder that my grades were under her control. She would threaten to destroy projects, take homework, and even obstruct my ability to graduate on time.
If I reported these things to anyone, she would threaten to send me to therapy. I was told that once in therapy or counseling, this was a public record that affected my chances of getting into different colleges, career paths, and made me less desirable as a person. In all honesty, I fully shared her distrust of health professionals. I refused medications and vaccinations for many years and into adulthood.
It didn’t matter that she rarely acted on these threats; the mere idea put the fear of God in me, and successfully limited my access to outside help and resources. Only on a few occasions did she keep me home from school or interfere with my homework. She never went through with enrolling me in therapy or counseling. I remember lashing out and promising to tell a therapist stories that would ensure I’d be removed by CPS.
And just like that, we found ourselves in a twisted stand-off. A cycle so toxic, illogical, and terrifying, neither one of us could break it. She would threaten me, I would retaliate with my own empty threat. At this time in my life, I felt as though I had my liberties: I could go to the mall with my friends and text on an iPhone... but I was utterly terrified to risk disobeying my mom. The idea that my entire future could crumble on her whim embedded itself in my brain. Whether this idea was realistic or not didn’t matter. I knew her threats may have been as empty as mine were, but I couldn’t risk finding out. It turned me into a very desperate person.
One promise my Mom did often follow through with was her pursuit to shame me to other family members. To my father, grandparents, and relatives at family gatherings, many times in front of everyone. They were usually sly comments that painted me as hateful or spoiled. Sometimes she cried and became the victim of a cruel, unruly teenager. It served the purpose of both humiliating me, and making me feel as though I had no one to turn to. “What will dad think of you when I tell him this?”
The insults were the first aspect of my mom’s behavior that I ever labeled as “abusive.” I realized by late high school that having a parent refer to you regularly as a “slut”, “bitch”, or “brat” was beyond the realm of normalcy between mothers and daughters. Mom seemed extremely concerned and borderline fearful of issues related to my independence; she was mistrustful of friends, my school activities, even my clothes. I was berated daily about my sexual promiscuity, dishonesty, and my plummeting reputation. She would never fail to remind me what others thought about me. Sometimes these insults were disguised, and other times they were angry and direct. Eventually, I spat them back. I did this to a degree that I am not proud of. I grew colder, remorseless. It was my defense mechanism. Mom chose to say things that cut straight to my core and made me believe them.
I ended up escalating things to a level that was out of control. As a teenager, I screamed back at my mom, when in retrospect, she should have been ignored. The logic of her insults was usually nonsensical: My sexuality was constantly under fire (from being a promiscuous whore to being a closet gay), as was my weight (either I was getting fat or I must be throwing up at school). I was put on birth control at the earliest possible moment. My underwear was inspected. My bra size and style were preselected. The bras fit uncomfortably because she claimed that unless I was pregnant, my breasts should not be growing more. She was convinced that not only was I sexually active, I was insatiable… yet I rarely left the house save for school activities.
By late high school my mom and I would engage in these heated arguments almost daily. We both hurled unforgivable insults and tore each other down relentlessly. I would cry so hard during an argument I hyperventilated. On more than one occasion I threw up. Crying still enraged her. Part of this deplorable pattern cycles back to that early belief that this was how you deal with family members- especially mothers and teenage daughters. I thought in a distorted way it was typical behavior, not a toxic cycle of two people fighting for control by humiliating and belittling the other.
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Repercussions.
Not every emotion toward my mom was anger. She kept me close through a sense of dependency. She contributed to a worldview of danger and insecurity. She insisted wild scenarios in which I was assaulted can and would happen to me, listing reasons like my gender, appearance, and general lack of awareness. Additionally, she would point out how fortunate we were to have the house, family security, jobs, and education that we did. This was true to an extent; but in reality we struggled to pay bills and suffered from a terribly unhealthy and hostile home environment. Her and I, despite our clashes, had a very “us against the world” mentality. To say I was obsessed with my academic performance, my appearance, and my future career path was an understatement. My anxiety fueled my efforts to survive and escape the nonexistent dangers, while I continued be a victim of stress, depression, and terror.
I complied with much of her control out of fear. I had a tracker on my phone that allowed my parents know where I was at all times because I was convinced I was going to be attacked and raped. I didn’t much attempt to access social media (YouTube, MySpace, Facebook, aside from limited text messages). I broke down at the mere thought of driving a car because I just knew I would be in a collision. I did not work because I believed it would ruin my grades. It seemed that the more restraints placed on me, the more heightened my paranoia became.
Aside from the physical signs of stress: the shaking, scratching, insomnia, crying; I became fearful and angry at the world.
I carried weapons on me at all times- shanks that I carved, scissors, pepper spray, because I believed at any moment I would be attacked for some reason. I had panic attacks from being left alone (totally alone that is, not just in my room where I could hear the other members of the house).
In school I remember my fingers hurting and bleeding because I picked the nail down so much. I remember my teacher staring in concern that I physically could not keep my bow arm from shaking during orchestra practice.
I believe the worst side effect was how I perceived myself. I developed an extreme all-or-nothing mentality characterized by desperation and a lack of trust in the world around me. I pushed myself to be “perfect” and far exceeded any reasonable limit of exertion. Each success never felt like enough. I hated the way my skin looked in the mirror due to all the scabs. My first experience with makeup was early at just 9 years old. Mom walked in the bathroom and gave me some concealer. She told me to use it because my face had become so bad from the scabbing. Imagine being told by one of your primary caregivers how disturbing you look to them.
Though I barely knew how to use it, I reapplied my makeup several times a day including before bed for fear of being seen without it. Even today in my mid-twenties, it’s truly difficult to go completely bare as there are still scars and remnants of the times I pulled out my eyebrows and lashes.
Throughout my adolescence I felt disgusting and ugly. In addition, each attempt at doing something different with how I looked was instantly scrutinized by a parent who was convinced it was related to my promiscuity. I ended up believing that I looked like a meth addict. Pock-marked, greasy haired, small breasted, straight as a board. It wasn’t until after I started living away from home, when my parents could not see my purchases or how I experimented with my appearance, that I learned how to actually apply makeup, style my hair and outfits, and developed a better routine of self care and hygiene.
I believe I survived these years without spiraling too far downward because I was surrounded by young people in far worse situations than my own. Most of my friends came from poverty, sexual abuse, and had no history of higher education in their family. How could I justify feeling the way I did when I was given so much more than these people? I witnessed peers cut themselves, turn to drugs; suicide was common at my public high school. I was told by my parents, and I told myself, that I was better than that. I had friends to confide in, to relate to, but also to remind me that I was privileged in my current situation. I couldn’t squander it with unjustified self-pity. Therefore, the abuse that I wasn’t blind to, I truly accepted as a normal part of teenagerdom. After all, life isn’t perfect. I concluded that being treated this way, and feeling this way, was an expected side-effect of adolescence. Most of the time, I didn’t fall apart until I was at home. Like my mom, I learned how to look like a functioning person in the eye of the public to avoid attracting attention. I thought that, perhaps, this was a phase each person has to undergo in order to come out as a stronger, well-adapted adult.
…I was not being prepped to be any kind of well-adapted adult. I was facing psychological trauma that in fact left me with depression-fueled relationship and self-worth issues that continue to affect me today.
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Aftermath.
In college it became apparent that my ability to develop healthy relationships was corrupted by my perception of what was “normal”. I had felt unsatisfied in previous relationships. Although I felt attracted to some individuals, I genuinely had no trust and very low moral expectations of men. I prevented myself from forming genuine connections and assumed the worst. In a twisted way I anticipated there would and should be a struggle for dominance in a relationship. This was initially true even with my partner of 4 years. I had constant fears of infidelity for no reason. Being vulnerable in front of him was a source of shame. I anticipated he would leave at any moment and when we began living together I made constant backup plans. I found it strange that arguments didn’t tend to spiral into heated matches. I believe it took extreme patience and a level of emotional maturity most college-age students lack, but he countered all of my shortcomings with kindness and a willingness to understand. I can remember feeling genuinely baffled when he began to tell me about his childhood. I thought he was lying until I visited his home. I sensed that his family behaved dramatically different than mine. They didn’t yell or hurt each other. Initially, I didn’t know how to react to or accept his family dynamic. I still clung to the belief that the type of upbringing I experienced was normal and healthy.
It also became clear that there are serious, lasting self-worth issues as a result of my past. The fear of inadequacy looms over me as a constant shadow. After so many years, I still have to actively ward off negative thoughts regarding my appearance, my body, my maturity, my intelligence, my mannerisms, and my behaviors. As a result, we’ve had the same discussions and confrontations time and time again, forcing one partner into a cycle of reassurance and dependency. It’s is unfair, unhealthy. Although I’m aware that each of these anxieties is unfounded and irrational, and I see how it hurts my partner, I still have to make a determined effort to not think myself into a hole every single day. It’s an unending battle to remain calm, rational, and positive. It’s ridiculously easy to convince oneself of being worthless, and to just fall back into that mindset. It’s truly a struggle I thought would one day end when I realized the root cause. When I suspected I was a victim of trauma, I thought I could move on after identifying it. Instead, it’s like an addiction that I have to choose to war with each day in order to not relapse.
The further away I ge
Flashbacks to childhood abuse
Abused 
Dealing with abusive parents
I am a shitty person 
Supporting an abused family member 
