*Trigger warning for this post*

Because of the abuse I endured in childhood I was terrified of passing it onto a child. For a long time I would not even entertain the idea of even becoming pregnant and used birth control religiously even when I didn’t have a partner and wasn’t sexually active.

There is additional trauma here because I was sexually assaulted in my early 20s while I wasn’t on birth control. I was too out of it afterwards to get Plan B and waiting to see if I was pregnant because of that was an awful experience.

Anyway, I surrounded myself with pets to block out the biological clock ticking away. I was terrified that I would become my mother. That’s what I was told over and over again. She told me that I was exactly like her. She told me that before she became pregnant that she wasn’t a bad person. Something about having us made her snap and become a bad person. We made her like that. I was afraid that would happen to me for so long. I think part of me still is. It has been hard having a baby because of these fears.

I am afraid that I’m not good enough for him. Afraid of tainting him by being around me. My fear is that one day he might develop an anxiety disorder one day because of being around my anxiety or have difficulty coping with the difficulties in the world. I’m afraid that I’m going to be a terrible mother. I’m doing my best to protect him and prevent this from happening.

It doesn’t help that he has been having difficulty changing from breastfeeding to bottle feeding. He hasn’t taken to that change easily. I just want him to be happy.

It doesn’t help that I’m neurodivergent and have found it difficult to learn the unique ways of babies and non-verbal communication.

I’ve been horribly critical of myself when the truth is that I’ve been doing my best. He is really important to me and perhaps that is part of why I’m being hard on myself. My standards are so high. I might not be the best mother in the world granted. Some take to it more naturally than me. But I make up for what doesn’t come naturally by trying really hard. I try really really hard. I want to be a good mother to him.

My mother was wrong. I’m not like her. I’m not carelessly feeding a 6 month old baby left over Chinese food. I don’t even like using pre-made baby food. That’s only for when we go out if we can’t cook for him or ask for something to be made for him or completely run out of groceries. He gets his food made from scratch. Fresh fruit and vegetables, fresh meat. I didn’t even get fresh fruit until I was doing exams as a teenager and even then only on exam days. We never got fresh vegetables or meat. Ever. Hell, she didn’t even cook for us at all. I remember standing on a stool to use the stove myself when I was 4 or 5 years old to heat up a tin of beans. She told me that she tried once and we didn’t like her cooking.

He’s never going to flinch when someone moves their arm. He’s never going to silently starve because of being too afraid to ask for permission to eat food. He’s never ignored. Not when he’s sad. Not when I’m tired or not feeling well.

When we weren’t being verbally, physically or sexually abused. We were being ignored. Neglected, quite often abandoned. She would go out of the house and leave us alone. Or she would be home sleeping all day. Or drinking and watching her soap operas. I would get yelled at for crying. I learned to cry silently.

Thanks mother, for the anxiety disorder, traumatic memories and the jacked up nervous system that causes constant pain.

Now, don’t get me wrong she did some nice things. On holiday she wasn’t terrible because other people were around. She knew how to hide her cruelty. And rarely she would wake us up in the middle of the night to go get pizza from the grocery store. And she let me have some pets that she would later abandon when she got tired of them being at home. The kindest thing she did was try to have other people take care of us. Luckily, we weren’t harmed by those people. I enjoyed being on the farms of members of our church. I enjoyed practically growing up in a library. Another fun story. She tried to give us away to members of her church. Absolutely wild stuff! Honestly, I could probably not try at all and still manage to be a better mother because all it takes is just not being cruel. It is that simple!

One other good thing was she didn’t bring men home. I was just told that all men cared about was having sex and that’s all that I was good for. Super healthy stuff! Definitely didn’t cause me any problems later on. 😉

At least I got a half assed apology before I cut her off. I’m sorry for whatever I did, I don’t remember what it was.

I get it, she was too young when she had me and abused herself when she was a child. Raped as well. And abandoned by our significantly older father who seemingly had a fetish for knocking people up and legging it. And was severely mentally ill. She was also largely alone with very few friends. Maybe only 1 at a time when she joined the church.

She wasn’t capable. Clearly. I’m entirely surprised that I survived being a baby. I just hit the unlucky genetic lottery of being born to someone who was unable to love. My boy is loved.

I just hope that my mother grows and learns to become a better person and that she doesn’t harm anyone else. That is what forgiveness looks like for me.