A Journey to Self-Acceptance

Trigger Warning: Narcissistic Parents. This blog shares my experiences of childhood abuse, an inherently uncomfortable topic. Writing about these memories is painful, yet it’s part of my healing. I want to share this as a way to process my past. If you are feeling vulnerable, please approach this blog with caution.

I don't share these experiences for pity. Please know, I have spent a lot of time in therapy and I'm always working on various aspects of myself. I don't always get things right; I'm not perfect. But I know I deserved better, and things are better.

But growing up, I was systematically denied stability and the security every child deserves. Though I’ve always had an optimistic outlook, my sense of self was persistently undermined. I grew up believing I was worthless, ugly, and stupid - labels projected onto me by my mother and two different Step Dads.

The First StepDad

He was an educated Tory with "boarding school syndrome." He spoke in riddles, taught me to listen to what wasn’t being said to grasp the truth, and had a darkly oppressive presence. He'd stomp around the house, heels heavy on the wooden floorboards. I was only a child, yet he loved proving he was more intelligent than me, often mocking me in ways I didn’t fully understand. His behaviour went beyond simple cruelty; there was something deeply unsettling about him.

In one memory, I was about 4. We'd recently moved in with him. I don't remember why, but I was crying in my bedroom when he came in to mock me. Mimicking my cries, my mother joined in, laughing along. The louder I cried, the louder they copied. My face reddened and tears flowed hard. It felt so wrong. Eventually, my mother tried to comfort me, but when I rejected her 'comfort' I received a hard slap. The pain of that wasn’t just physical. I wonder if Mum reflected on that moment, or pretended it didn't happen. I think, the latter.

Now I know children of that age, I cannot fathom how anyone would treat me that way. I do recognise Mum had her levels of trauma, but as an adult, she made a choice that day and continued to make choices. The impact of her decisions affects my hormones and nervous system today.

However, I didn’t get to spend much quality time with Mum during the 10 years she was with StepDad 1. She seemed trapped in that marriage. It became increasingly difficult for us to leave the house. My sister and I were expected to stay out of sight and sound. We moved homes and schools often, outrunning the concerns of outsiders. My mother, whom I desperately wanted to trust, was inconsistent in her treatment of us. But I loved her in the way that only a child can. She was my world.

To receive attention and love from her felt like rays of sunshine on a dazzling summer day. I craved her attention and tried my best to be good for her so that I could feel the warmth of her love. It didn't take long before my people-pleasing skills developed. I often asked how much things cost, understanding that caring for me, cost money. I learned to minimise my needs because I knew I was a financial burden. I learned to ask for less than what I wanted for birthdays and Christmases. One thing I did ask for, was a birthday lunch at home. I wanted us to come together as a family and it gave Mum the chance to put on a spread and get praise from everyone. This worked for a time.

My welcome to teenagehood

On my 13th birthday, Mum nearly killed StepDad 1. They decided my birthday lunch was the perfect time to retrieve something from the attic. My sister and I sat at the kitchen table, listening to the familiar sound of loud squabbling upstairs, trying to distract ourselves with party rings. Vicious arguments weren't uncommon, but they usually happened late at night. Suddenly, a crash and THUD. The house went silent. We daren't move. After a time, they reappeared, and StepDad 1 was meek. He was never meek. Later, my mother admitted to swiping the ladder from beneath him in an attempt to end his life.

Happy birthday, me.

Leaving StepDad 1

Later that year, I began having real conversations with Mum. It was a summer of hope and relief, and I even felt I could offer her support. My people-pleasing talents were pushed to the limit of my young teenage self. I guided her through leaving him, and eventually, she did. When I asked why she married him, she stated, “He could look after you.” And with that, she placed the weight of that oppressive marriage on my shoulders. I did not respond, I was taught well to internalise comments like that.

The next few months were a reprieve. We lived in a remote part of County Durham, near the Cumbrian border, but there was a sense of freedom. I remember summer drives to Holy Island with our border collie, Broch, and another trip to Troon in Scotland. Those times in nature felt like a rare chance for healing. We listened to Savage Garden and Cyndi Lauper as the road unfolded before us.

Enter StepDad 2

It didn’t take long for another StepDad to appear. There had been a years-long affair in the background between them, and he was recently divorced. My mother left StepDad 1, not for herself or us, but for her new husband. Unfortunately, this man outsourced his thoughts to the Daily Mail and had a constant undercurrent of anger, which often looked like threats of violence, and stomping around the house. By then, my voice had already been stifled so I absorbed these threats and let them settle into my nervous system.

Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire

So, my teenage years were shaped by yet another oppressive, yet ignorant, Step Dad. His children were loud and brash. It was easy for them to gain more attention because they knew how to ask for things. At 14/15, I held down three Saturday jobs to pay my way. My mother encouraged me to date his eldest son, who had an inappropriate crush on me. In what world did she live in? I remember feeling disgusted. Around this time, deep anxiety would hit. I used to think I was sensing an earthquake happening. Sitting on the sofa, it felt like the world was ending and I was picking up on the energy. I'd check the news for reports, but the only devastation was internal.

Once their marriage was settling, I was reminded constantly that I was a minor, without rights — except when my stepbrother moved in at 18 and had to pay rent. (His crush subsided, by the way). Somehow, I was expected to pay rent, as this was "only fair." It didn't feel fair, but I didn't have a choice. I was 16 and we agreed that both of us would pay. The conversation ended and there was a swift hushed family discussion. It was assumed because I was paid every four weeks (therefore more frequently than monthly) that somehow I owed more. They took no time figuring out how to get more money from me. I had to stand firm and correct them: I was paid monthly and stuck to the original agreement.

By then, my sister had left home. Her survival technique was to tell lies, which created serious family issues elsewhere. Though I know she suffered too, I was there, it’s hard to trust her now. She triggered something significant, and though I’ve since received apologies from others she deceived, she's never taken accountability. That's for her to figure out.

The pot boiled over

As things grew more volatile at home, I was 18, in my second year of college, and well into my emo phase. Hello, 2006. I drank heavily and would walk home alone from clubs, not recognising the risks. It was only when friends and their mothers gently scolded me that I realised safety mattered, a lesson I didn’t learn at home.

Before my A Level exams, I stopped sleeping as insomnia took hold. I listened to my REM CD on repeat as I tossed and turned. Mum insisted I bring StepDad 2 to a doctor's appointment, maybe to keep watch over what I said. When the doctor asked me about the cause, I meekly pointed to StepDad 2, only to be met with a blank stare. I was diagnosed with depression, for the first time.

I didn’t know what a healthy relationship looked like, and my first boyfriend was controlling. My mother seemed relieved that I was someone else’s responsibility. A month after that doctor’s appointment, I cooked him a meal. I had plenty of practice as I was the one who cooked family dinners. But I left dishes unwashed and was promptly kicked out of the house. Despite paying rent and doing more than my fair share of chores, they were desperate to be rid of me. There were so many incredibly underhanded things they did leading up to this. They were looking for one wrong step and seized it.

When I went to pick up my things, my mother screamed in the street, yelling that I shouldn’t return and that I wasn’t welcome. She took my key, which I didn’t want anyway. I sat in the car feeling detached, like I was watching an episode of EastEnders as she screamed at me. Luckily the Toxic Boyfriend had quite a lovely family, who took me in. They began to show me what family looked like. When they spoke to each other, they'd talk about happy memories, and I realised the only stories Mum were ones where I did something wrong.

That evening was Bonfire Night. Remember, remember! Later, watching fireworks burst in the sky, I felt profound grief. November 5th became a strange milestone. Looking up at fireworks in the sky while bonfires crackle transports me back to that deep grief. After years of being emotionally manipulated and gaslit, that day signifies the most tangible action she’d ever taken.

In my mid-20s, I attempted a reconciliation with Mum and she admitted she’d been jealous of me. Jealous of her child. She didn’t understand my outlook on life and tried to “trip me up.” I still don’t understand what it takes for someone to treat their child that way. My therapist at the time asked why I wanted to make amends, and all I could say was "Because she is my Mum". I feel like I exhausted every avenue before admitting defeat. She cannot be nurturing and loving, and that’s not my fault.

18 years on

This year, at 36, I realised it has been 18 years since that day. I have lived another lifetime since that bonfire night. It’s been a long road, rocky and far from smooth, but I finally feel I’m living a good life.

I recently was led in meditation, to a bonfire, and asked to notice who surrounded it. My circle. I was amazed as more and more faces of loved ones appeared. I realised, my circle is HUGE! I have crafted my own heart-led family. They hold me up when I falter, and I am there for them, always. I've created this life for myself because it's what I deserve. Despite having a less-than-ideal start to life, I feel like I've won the lottery.

People sometimes gently ask if I have had contact with Mum. The answer is no. After reading this, I am sure you understand why. That door is finally and firmly shut. In the end, I spoke to her in the manner she often spoke to me. That finally put the nail in the coffin. I want her nowhere near my life.

Countless things were said and done, that I cannot write down. But I wish I could go back and talk to my teenage self, though I'm not sure she'd listen. Teenage me was in survival mode, living on autopilot. She needed time, and for things to uncover, sometimes explosively, before she learned the power of vulnerability and healing. I feel like I’m just getting started, and wonder where the next 18 years will take me. Definitely through the menopause - argh! And I know through an abundance of wonderful things too.

Today have time to reset my nervous system. I am still hypervigilant and it's not uncommon for me to imagine being yelled at, despite no threats being present. I’ll be walking down the street and worry a man is about to step out and scold me, making me feel small. My hormones cause me intense pelvic pain and that's my next work in progress.

I'm not so much of a people-pleaser anymore, though some habits die hard. I'm great at reading energy and trusting my intuition. I've lived a lot of lifetimes, and use my life lessons to support and guide my tarot clients. My empathy runs deep. I know those with seemingly 'perfect' upbringings aren't unscathed by trauma. I do my best not to judge a book by its cover, recognising life is challenging in all its forms. In some ways, I'm grateful for my upbringing so that I can use my lessons to teach others.

A Note to Readers

If any part of my story resonates with your own experiences, I hope you know you aren’t alone. Healing is possible, even if it feels slow. Please take care of yourself, and don’t hesitate to reach out for support if this brings up difficult memories. You deserve better, and it does get better.