Betrayal is a Mother

Originally written on August 17, 2013: Another post transferred from Safire Falcon. I just read through it and it needs some editing to clarify the situation. But reading this got me so angry.  I need a break from this shit as much as I need to post it. It gave me heart palpitations. That’s how pissed off I got as I reread this post. It needs editing, but I need to sleep right now.

These people are so fucked up to have treated me like this. My own mother especially, but my sister in this scenario too is quite the POS.  I need another word to refer to this group of assholes because they are not family.


I was emotionally abused as a child and later scapegoated and manipulated by family as an adult. The latter showing its ugly dynamics in the first few months of this year (2013) awakening me to total awareness of the seriousness of the toxicity.

During those months we were caring for my father, while he was terminally ill, a particular agreement was made within this situation between my mother and I after my sister had very obviously triangulated her against me, after a conversation between my sister and me pertaining to the same subject.

The conclusion sis and I had reached on the phone wasn’t satisfactory to her apparently, but instead of letting me know, instead of discussing it with me, like an adult, she called “mommy.”

It hadn’t even been an argument, and it had actually seemed to me that when my sister and I hung up, we were in agreement and on the same boat.

Take note: This is what narcissists will do to your ‘face’. But behind your back they talk shit, triangulate and devise some plan with someone else to get you to think that YOU are the douche bag, when all along they are the players, fucking with your mind.

But although my sister acts like a narc in some situations, especially with me, she doesn’t act like that in every scenario with every person.

My mother called me to get the agreement out of me that my sister was afraid to re-address. And I went ahead in the end and told my mother that I would take a couple days to figure out what I would agree to in caring for my father.

I thought it through and let my mom know specifically what I would agree to and she took it back to my siblings, whom I was told agreed with my terms too. I was actually appreciative that she was willing to play mediator since I knew that logical adult conversation was probably not a probability with my sibs and me.

We all walked on eggshells, had to crane our necks around big fat elephants in any room we were in and I for one had begun to felt afraid given I’d been physically attacked or threatened by both of them.

My parents were divorced, but in addition to my mother’s mediation, she had also told me/agreed that she’d go to my father’s if none of us three kids could get there at a particular time.

Just weeks later, there was an attempt to manipulate me out of my terms one particular weekend. I was exhausted and completely stressed from the chaos that had ensued on a particular Saturday. In fact that specific Saturday, I was not supposed to be there at all. But was later asked to go for breakfast. I was there for much longer as a result of the home health aid (who was being paid) not showing up with her car. A car she needed to do the grocery run she was scheduled to do.

I was so ready for Sunday (the day after) to replenish and get some stuff done at home. And not see any of my fucked up family, including my father. Dying or not, he was still an asshole.

But then the text came from sister, asking, “Can you do lunch tomorrow?  You’ll just need to be there an hour.”

I knew that “only being there an hour” wasn’t likely, given my so called breakfast visit that same morning which turned into half the day and a severely chaotic one at that.

In fact I had spoken to my sister mere hours before receiving that text and told her I wouldn’t be going the next day. There was no acknowledgement of that day being Sunday…one of my AGREED days OFF!

Not that I can’t be flexible. But I felt like I was being taken advantage of. I had even mentioned to my sister that mom said she’d go if none of us were available. BEcause after I’d told my sister I wasn’t going the next day while we were talking on the phone, she mumbled, “I can’t go tomorrow.”

Of course she couldn’t. She didn’t want to deal with any of the hard part but she expected me to. In her little twisted mind, she seemed to think I owed it to everyone.

I needed a whole day. Well truthfully I needed my whole life back or at least the rest of it, but that’s another story.

The mom specifically told me that she’d step up and fill in when none of us three kids could be there. Seems to me this qualified. So what the fuck is with the communication break down here? Maybe mom wasn’t saying the same shit to my sister as she was saying to me. But then how would I know.

My sister, apparently thinking she was my mother at that point and me her small Cinderella child, didn’t think the mom should have to drive down for “just breakfast.”  I found this out later when I finally got hold of my mom to be sure she was (or someone) was going to take care of my father’s lunch.

I had called my mother to tell her someone was needed Sunday. But she seemed to forget the agreement too since I got a cold response. “Well I’ll talk to brother.”  (Of course she said his name, but I’m not using names.) So apparently brother trumped me and trumped our agreement. WTF for? I was telling her what was needed. My word apparently wasn’t good enough.

So after not having the courtesy returned to me with a phone call or text from either the mom or sister, I called my mother and was informed she’d talk to my brother. That was the night before. The next day I called her again. She was clearly irritated, told me she was headed to dad’s in this tone of voice that came across like I was asking a stupid question and should know what she was doing.

And I was informed that my sister was frustrated (when I’d asked if she was angry) and didn’t understand why I couldn’t go instead of my mom driving down.

1. There is only a 15 minute difference drive time between my mom and I to the place my dad had lived.

2. The agreement was made this way to give me time to replenish. My dad was dying but he was not easy to be around and he was my abuser. And news fucking flash mom: YOU ALLOWED IT! And were in fact an abuser to me as well.

I did not verbalize number one or number 2 above, but I did ask her if she mentioned the agreement to my sister and her reply was, with an eye roll in her voice, “No, I didn’t want to go there.”

Of course not womb donor, you couldn’t possibly find it in yourself to stick up for me, tell her the truth and be fucking real with your very own narcissistic daughter. I suppose it was easier to keep the scapegoat daughter, the one who froze when she needed to be sticking up for herself, squashed in her role.

A  twisted, toxic dynamic, with a dying man in the middle of it. It was a very life draining and soul stealing on-going event. Not to mention how drained of my soul I’d already been, being raised in such an environment.

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16 thoughts on “Betrayal is a Mother

  1. Your mom knew you were being abused by your dad yet everyone expected you to care for him and everyone wanted you to keep your mouth shut about the truth. These people are freaking monsters!!!!!!!!

    Liked by 2 people

    • In revisiting all of this I’m seeing and feeling even more than I had before. Earlier on it was probably a combo of things. Shock played a big part for sure.

      The crazy thing in this situation is that my mother was so manipulative with me. That’s the part that hurts more than anything.

      My father was still certainly an asshole but at the time of his illness it was my siblings I was afraid of beating me down more.

      I’m also seeing how insidious all of it was. That word was used to describe the abuse from my family before by someone I’d told all this to previously to now. It was the perfect word because at the time I was describing it to this person, I was also trying to explain it away, and then add something like, “Although it’s true that they did this, but I did that, so what they did should be excusable.”

      I wasn’t saying literally that it should be excused, but pointing out to the person I was talking to that I wasn’t an angel either.

      She also was the one to teach me that the difference is that I’m acknowledging it all. I’m sorry and remorseful. They aren’t.

      I also used to minimize the abuse because it was never sexual abuse, at least not overt sexual abuse. However my father did tell inappropriate (dirty) jokes around us and he would sit around with something called a wrap around on with no underwear on, then. He’d sit on the couch like that completely exposed.

      So there’s that. But I used to be one of those people who would say, “Well it wasn’t that bad because this didn’t happen.”

      The psychological abuse though can really fuck you up without having a hand ever being laid on you. I’m glad you see it Bethany. Thank you so much.

      Liked by 1 person

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  3. I remember reading this before. And I am just as astonished now, as I was then, at the great lengths you went to for your abusive family. I would not do this for either one of my abusive parents, dying or not. You are a better person than me!

    Not only that, but I have no desire or expectation for anyone in my family to ever take care of me, if I become incapable of caring for myself. I am making my family promise that if I ever get to the point where I need someone to feed me, clean me, etc, I want to be put me in assisted care or in a nursing home, right away. It’s one thing to have professionals who are being paid to take care of my physical needs, and quite another to have my husband, my children, or my grandchildren doing it!

    I could hear the “eye roll in the voice” as I read it. Very descriptive.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Yeah, I found it interesting that I am more aware of the sick cruelty they imposed on me than ever. It’s so hard to fathom these people are my blood.

      Thanks for calling me strong. I actually felt weak for giving in the way I did. For not standing up for myself, for keeping my tail between my legs all that time and allowing them walk all over me.

      I know they are responsible for their evil behavior but I still feel like a fool.

      And yes, my father was quite selfish in his insistence of us caring for him. He had one home health aid who would show up without a car and my father would need grocery shopping done. Her husband would come later and she’d go then, but she sat around more than she did anything.

      I wanted to hire someone more often. and in fact my sister and I talked about it before I was berated for not being willing to be there so much.

      I’m just remembering this too. She and I talked about getting more help from a HHA and she wanted me on that page with her so we could work on my brother to stop going so much, give him a break and let him have more of a life other than taking care of my father and working.

      The next thing I know, my mother is calling me to guilt trip me into ‘stepping up.”

      Oh my God, I forgot about this part. It wasn’t the first time my sister had acted like she was fine with our convo only to turn on me behind my back and then recruit my mother to shame and guilt me.

      I think my sister didn’t want to spend the money. She probably wanted to inherit as much as possible.

      I’m pretty sure she went to Disney with it.

      This is a woman who claims they can’t afford this or that but then gets her kitchen remodeled.

      I’m now also remembering that my sister asked my father for his bed when he was getting ready to move…before he knew he was sick. So when he died the same applied. The bed went to my 10 year old nephew. I had been sleeping on a lumpy mattress and desperate needed something but it wasn’t offered to me, nor was I asked if I needed one. I also told her that my mattress was lumpy and the springs were popping through, but still no consideration.

      She also had bunk beds (new mattresses, old frames) for her kids.

      After my father had passed, and we’d cleared out his apartment, I was talking to my sister on the phone and she told me she’d just set the bunk beds up. Like, wtf? No mention at all of the queen size bed she took for my 10 year old nephew.

      Anyway, I don’t think I’d be comfortable sleeping on that mattress or even in the bed itself. But that’s not the point and I have no doubt you understand.

      Hoo boy, this could’ve been a post in itself.

      Liked by 1 person

      • Oh yes, I do understand about the bed. They treated you like Cinderella! There isn’t any overt abuse in that true-to-life story, either, as I recall. No physical or sexual violence, no beatings, no rapes. But that little fairy tale describes the way your family treated you, to a T.

        You wrote: “It’s so hard to fathom these people are my blood.” No kidding! I have often thought the same thing about my family. I used to seriously wonder if the hospital nursery had mixed me up with another baby after I was born. But, according to the results I got from having my DNA tested on ancestry dot com, I am definitely related to my mother’s side of the family.

        Liked by 1 person

        • The more I write the more I feel like I’m only just waking up to how it really was. What the impact really was. It’s scary. It really is a wonder so many of us survived. But then a lot of us are also physically ill because of the stress we had to endure, like POWs.

          I always looked a lot like my father and his mother’s side of the family. So that pretty much settled that. And now I look more like my mother. I can’t stand it because the more I delve into this the more I can’t stand her. And she was always the ‘nice one.’ Pfft! Had me fooled.

          Liked by 1 person

          • I don’t look much like the rest of my family, so that helps. But oh my goodness… just doing the things like my mother used to do regularly, like cooking! Augh, I hate it! I don’t want to be anything like her! So I can imagine how that would bite, it I looked in the mirror and saw similarities.

            Yes, you do look when someone is showing there stuff right in front of you, you can’t help it. And then feeling yucky. But it’s on the “adult”, not on you or on me!!

            I was thinking about what you said in your other comment, about the therapist who wrote down your life history and used words you didn’t use and made it sound like petty whining. I have known therapists exactly like that. It helps to keep in mind that most people who study psychology and go into that field, are drawn to it because there is something wrong. My daughter is enrolled in a university now, studying to be a psychologist. While I was visiting her recently, she was telling me how scary it is for her to think about some of her fellow students becoming therapists!

            Liked by 1 person

    • I was told years ago that him sitting around like that is sexual abuse. I had no idea until then and it did make sense. It’s more covert and insidious though I think, just like most everything my family has done.

      It has been so difficult even for me to see it at times and then when I was first starting to put it into words it seemed like “it wasn’t really that bad.”

      In fact when I therapist did an evaluation on me, she had asked me questions about my childhood and I told her different stories from things that happened to me. When I read what she’d written to proof it, to make sure it was accurate, it read like someone complaining. I was told it would be something the judge would look at for my disability. I found out later that wasn’t true but it would not have helped my case. She was a lousy writer, got none of the emotion across and also wrote shit in there I never said. It was weird. She was the therapist that told me that I should join a gym for my depression. “With what money?” I asked her.

      Besides the Y was a no go anyway since my sister is personal trainer at one of them. There is no way I was going to take the chance of running into her.

      But I digress big time. Sorry. Haha, guess that triggered some stuff huh?

      Anyway, to answer your question, no. My father didn’t make me keep my door open, but he didn’t like me locking it. And then would just walk in without knocking whenever he wanted to.

      When I confronted him and told asked him to knock, first he had to be a dick and tell me it’s his house and all that bs. But I kept at it with my argument and he finally agreed.

      BUT…his sick and twisted idea of knocking was to knock and then walk in. Not to wait for me to respond with a “Come in” or “Just a minute.” Very intrusive, very childish and very narcissistic.

      Liked by 1 person

      • I know what you mean about not realizing that it’s a form of sexual abuse, when a parent does something like that. How can a child even know it’s not normal, that every dad in the world doesn’t do the same thing?

        When I was 12, after my parents split up, my mother started walking around the house all day wearing nothing but a see-through pair of panties. No bra, just the thin underpants. She did this in front of me and my four preschool sisters and brothers.

        It was a hot summer and the house did not have air conditioning. That was her excuse; But still, it was very creepy. The worst part was that she kept all of the windows and curtains wide open at the time, and we lived on a busy street. Soon, boys in the neighborhood were taunting me on the school bus, saying that I lived in a whore house.

        One day my twisted mother told me that I also needed to take off all my clothes and wear nothing but my underpants. She already had my little sisters and brothers doing that. At 12, it was still unthinkable for me to openly disobey my parents, so I did it. But I was embarrassed out of my mind, especially with all the open windows!

        I hid in my bedroom as long as I could, until she made me come out into the living room. Then I crossed my arms over my chest, to hide my budding breasts, and I ran down the hall and into the living room, where I immediately sat down on the floor behind a big wing chair. And that’s where I stayed for the next couple of hours, crushed between the chair and the wall, with my arms still planted across my chest.

        Finally my mother said, in a voice that sounded extremely irked: “Well, if all you’re going to do is hide behind that stupid chair, you might as well go put some clothes on, then.” Oh man, was I relieved! At least she never asked me to take off all my clothes, again. Except for one time, when I was 13, when she made me strip so she could beat me with the buckle end of a belt, all over my back. I had done something very bad, you see, with my boyfriend…

        Back when I was still 12 years old, my periods had not started yet, when one day, as I was walking through the living room on the way to my bedroom, my mother stopped me and asked if I had yet shown any signs that I might be about to start having periods. I had no idea what she meant. “No, I don’t think so,” I answered her.

        Then she told me that there was a way to see if I was about to have start having periods…. whew. Ok. No. No, I am not going to tell the rest of that story. Not right now.

        Anyway, here’s the thing. What my mother was doing was also a form of sexual abuse. And like you, I did not know it then, but i certainly do know it now.

        My mother used to talk to me a lot about how she had always wanted to be a boy when she was a little girl, and when she grew up, she said that she really wanted to be a man. And i know this for a fact, I will spare you the details of how I know this — when my mother was an adolescent, she sexually molested her younger sister many times. When my aunt, who was a tiny girl at the time, refused to cooperate, my mother would lock her in a dark closet under the stairs and not let her out until she agreed to let herself be molested.

        My aunt is 77 years old now and she still has claustrophobia from my mother’s abuse. When my aunt speaks about my mother, she refers to her as “my evil former sister.” Every once in a while my aunt will send me a text asking, “Has the devil taken my evil former sister to hell yet?’

        Anyway, I did not want to dump all my ancient garbage on you. I wasn’t going to mention any of this sick stuff. But then I thought, it might help you to know that you aren’t alone in this creepy, covert kind of parental sexual abuse, and not knowing, at the time or even for years afterward, how wrong it is.

        Like

        • Oh my gosh Lynda, what awful things to have happened to you, your siblings and your aunt. What scary situations. I have no other words but I’m sorry you all had to live through that horror show.

          I’m not sure if I didn’t know it wasn’t wrong but I knew I wasn’t comfortable with my father’s behavior in doing this. We had a sunken type living room from when I was 10 and I would sit on the step between the dining room and living room to watch TV sometimes, or to put my shoes on to go outside.

          He’d be sitting there like that and it would be hard not to look. I remember feeling ashamed back then but then I had therapists tell me it was normal and that helped.

          I had friends in the neighborhood I wanted to invite in and at the point when my father was doing this on the regular, I confronted him.

          I asked him if he’d put something on so I could bring friends in. He’d say, “It’s my house, I’ll dress the way I want.”

          He didn’t like most of my friends. And that’s a whole other deal there. He’d treat my friends like shit while welcoming my siblings’ friends like family.

          My father also used to carry a big thick stick with him when he’d walk our dog which now I don’t see as a big deal myself, in and of itself. His reason for taking it with him though was in case another dog approached.

          The kids in the neighborhood would tease me about him carrying that stick.

          Anyway, yeah, it’s easy to get triggered into more memories as we write and exchange stories. I don’t mind you writing about your stuff. And you’re right, it does help to know I’m not alone. Thank you. (((Lynda))) ❤

          Liked by 1 person

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