A Different Kind of Abuse
By: Shannon Ashley
Tags: Mental Health, Christianity, Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Parenting

When I became a mother at 32, I was petrified because I still didn’t have my life all together. Not at all. And I didn’t have great parenting role models growing up since both of my parents battled mental illness and neither one was particularly open or proactive about getting help for their emotions.

My pregnancy was filled with severe depression and anxiety. I envied women who were able to celebrate the lives growing inside them and feel excitement for their future. I didn’t. My partner left me very early on, I was unable to work, and I didn’t belong with anyone.

Never really having had a great support system, I spent most of those months with strangers. Suicidal ideation was a daily struggle and I wished that I would die suddenly and accidentally so I wouldn’t have to keep trying to hang on when happiness was so far out of reach.

The only thing that kept me going was reading about attachment theory and parenting with empathy. I was so scared about how I would cope as a single mom without family or friends to truly lean on, yet there was something about this idea that I could do something to help spare my child some of my pain. It gave me a tiny fragment of hope.

It’s hard for me to articulate, but over the past few years I have been learning just how traumatic my childhood was and how it really twisted me up inside. How I never felt protected, and never felt good enough for anything or anyone.

When we think about child abuse, we think about severe beatings, alcohol or drug abuse, and parents who constantly tell their kids that they’re stupid. But I wasn’t hit much--just “spanked” with a hairbrush or plastic hangers, and occasionally shoved or slapped. And I wasn’t constantly called names--but “crybaby” was the one that stuck. Nothing I had to say ever mattered since I was just a crybaby, of course.

I never thought those things were abuse… until I realized it wasn’t okay. Now I see how being treated that way left me with very deep scars and toxic beliefs about my worth.

I grew up in what I would label a “family cult.” My older sister and I were raised by our single mother who was very religious. Deeply religious. Not healthy religious. More like… have you seen Stephen King’s Carrie? So a mom like that. I call it a family cult because although it was just my mother shaping and teaching our beliefs, it was all about her personal interpretation of God and the bible , with no outside source to balance her out— and she was not to be questioned.

I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy! OMG AM I crazy?

For as long as I can remember, I was afraid of doing the wrong things, of disappointing my mom, or of making her angry. It was just this very real, very strong everyday fear. The quickest way to anger my mom was to disagree with her about her spiritual beliefs. Even just the hint of a differing idea was an abomination. Once in high school I dared say I didn’t think Christians needed to speak in tongues. Yeah. That was a bad day for me.

As a result, I believed well into adulthood that I could never be myself in front of my mom. That I couldn’t tell her no, and ultimately, that I had to obey her. Like I owed her my loyalty.

And honestly, growing up I really just thought she was too strict. I thought she meant well — and I still believe that she means well — but I’ve also come to understand that what I endured from her was unacceptably toxic and I’m still dealing with the consequences.

My mother didn’t believe in children having privacy. So in junior high and high school, she would read my diaries or journals when I was in the shower. Or she’d go through my school bag to read notes from my friends. I’d get out of the shower and be shocked by some terrible confrontation where she tossed bible verses on index cards at me with words like REBELLION, SEXUAL IMMORALITY, and WITCHCRAFT underlined and in all caps.

It’s almost funny because I was a really good, completely sheltered kid, so my mom actually had nothing to worry about. Through my entire high school career, I kissed two boys. I knew nothing about sex. I knew nothing about drugs. I would call my father —from whom I hated to ask for anything — and ask him to pick me up from parties if alcohol was being served. I. Was. A. Good. Kid.

Okay, but yes, I was still a teenager. So what kind of rebellion did I get into? Dating. Not that I could even go anywhere with a boyfriend, like to a movie, or anything. But I’d occasionally have a boyfriend in school and kept it a secret because she said I could date at 16, but I didn’t really believe she would ever be okay with my dating.

I couldn’t talk about boys with my mom. To this day, I can’t watch a TV show or movie with her and not feel uncomfortable during a kissing scene. Does she think I’m looking too closely? Am I looking too interested?

See, my mother believed I was a slut. She thought I was having sex and refused to let me see the school nutritionist for my chunky body and PCOS, because she believed it was a cover for my wanting to get on The Pill. Anytime my friends and I exchanged notes referencing the flirty or aggressive behavior of our classmates, my mom read them as if my friends and I were doing those things.

Even at nearly 36, she insists I’m lying and that I was the sexually explicit, aggressive and provocative girl with boys as a teen. ICYMI? I wasn’t.

In my sophomore year of high school, my then boyfriend drove me home from school — I usually took the bus. He kissed me when we said goodbye. Yup. We were kissing, just kissing. But my mother happened to be checking the mail and she saw me kissing this boy in his car and I was practically grounded for the rest of my high school years.

She called me a slut and an embarrassment. She went through my drawers and threw away any underwear that she believed to be “too sexy.” Underwear she bought, not me. I wasn’t allowed to go out with friends on most occasions and she lectured me daily about how she couldn’t trust me any longer. When school dances came up after that, she grilled me and warned me to be good with further bible verses warning me of judgment.

And the boyfriend? Of course, I ended it immediately.

Experiences like these made me feel as if I could never relax, never be myself, and never be believed. I was going through life on eggshells. If I had a personal life, it had to be in secret. Throughout my teenage years and even into my twenties, I had actual nightmares about my mom not believing me. I constantly felt like I was in SERIOUS trouble or just about to be in trouble and that there was nothing I could do to control what happened next.

The whole time, I was this very devout Christian kid. I was aware that classmates thought I was a goody goody and a little uptight, but I was constantly told by my own mom that I was immoral and rebellious. Which to me meant I could never measure up or be good enough in any way.

When I look back on my teenage years now, I’m shocked that it took me so long to begin to understand how unhealthy my world was. To be able to see it wasn’t normal. And to come to terms with the fact that being AFRAID of your mom isn’t a good thing.

Obviously, anytime I had a problem, or anytime I DID mess up and need help, I felt completely alone because I knew I couldn’t go to my mom. She wouldn’t believe me, wouldn’t believe in me, or surely wouldn’t be on my side.

I grew up so… afraid, but without actually knowing what I was so afraid of. I just felt… like I’d been made completely wrong.