Blame the Victim

My first post here…

I just made the mistake of telling my aunt how I feel about my mother’s insidious psychological abuse (without calling it that), and her responses were, “You know better,” and “It’s not all her fault, you let her do it to you.”

I was already feeling crushed by the weight of my aloneness, being completely trapped and literally having not a single friend to talk to about it. So this was kind of exactly the last thing I freaking needed to hear. I should have known better but when she called and asked how I was doing… lol nope, won’t make that mistake again! Keep on keeping it inside until I implode.

If someone beats their child, you don’t tell the child it’s their fault. Even if they abuse the child psychologically, if it’s overt—calling the child names, telling him hateful things, etc.—nobody would blame the child. But if it’s manipulative, passive-aggressive, subtle… suddenly it must be the child’s fault. It’s just as damaging and it’s still not my freaking fault.

She also told me she and my mother were disappointed I couldn’t move across the country as I had planned to (before my mother sabotaged my efforts by taking my savings…), because it would be good for us to have “space.” Wow, so that’s how it is, huh? The only two people in my life want to be rid of me? Cool, good to know. Well, they’ll get their wish soon.

I had always held back from Escaping because:

A) I clung to hope, however tiny, that things would someday get better. But they haven’t, they’ve gotten worse and worse and worse, and I have no control over any of it, and now I’m at rock bottom.

B) I didn’t want to hurt my mother. Ironic, I know. I didn’t want to “do that to her.” Now I realize how twisted that is. My escaping suffering is doing something to her?? Well, yeah, if the world revolves around her. Which she thinks it does.

Now I see clearly how it would play out. She and my aunt would play innocent (this is the same aunt, incidentally, who told me things like “nobody likes you” when I was 11, and “if you really wanted to lose weight you would” when I was 17 and literally starving myself to lose the weight I’d gained from the medication they forced me to take as a child). They would stand at my grave and shake their heads and say I did it to myself, and they tried their best but I chose not to be saved. They’ll use it to justify themselves one last time and everybody will listen and sympathize and judge me. How could I be so selfish? How dare I be unable to take it anymore? How dare I not love being mentally tortured and be a nonperson for another 35 years? And I won’t be there to defend myself.

She’s like a massive planet and I’m trying to escape on a rocket, but every time I launch, she increases her gravitational pull and slams me back down. And each crash weakens me that much more. Now I am drained. Broken. My fuel is spent. I have literally not a single friend (not an exaggeration; last time I even had coffee with someone was a year and a half ago and that person chose drugs over me). I have no work, no school, no activities, absolutely zilch to restore my spirit, I’m living with her, I have nobody else in my life to cancel out her poison… She has finally won.

I had started to write my story, from birth to death, in the slim hope that somewhere on earth, out of seven billion people, there’s one who would understand. One who would not fall for her martyr complex. It’ll be too late for me by then but it’s too late anyway. I’ll never have a life, I’ll never be a real human. The most I can hope for now is to be posthumously vindicated.