Get in, we’re going healing

 Trigger warning: Brief mentions of domestic violence and suicide. Also, this post is quite long.

I was scrolling through comments on one of my posts, finally figuring out how to reply to them—it took me long enough. One comment, in particular, stuck with me.

“I keep saying, and I'll keep on saying, children deserve moms who'll love them intentionally, which is what you're doing for your baby.”

- N

In a nutshell, it reminded me of something my English teacher once said: “You become what you hate.” That line has lived in my mind rent-free for over a decade. For years, I made it a point not to be a hater. My go-to phrase was, “I don’t hate anyone; I just intensely dislike them.”

Now, older me rolls her eyes at younger me for that pretentious attitude. I can laugh at myself for being haunted by that one phrase, especially because, honestly, I’m probably the biggest hater I know. But I’m not miserable about it—at all.

The reason I was so afraid to admit this was that I didn’t want to be anything like the man who raised me. There’s a saying that goes: “If you’re raised with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house. You’ll find him even when he’s not there. And if one day he’s gone, you’ll go find one and invite him in.”

Catherine Lacey ate up that one thing. Unbeknownst to me, I became the angry man in my house. It crept up on me, and when I finally noticed, it sickened me. We often forget to look in the mirror when thinking about danger.

Accountability had to start somewhere, and for me, it began when I realized I wasn’t the loving older sister I used to be. It wasn’t just because of parentification—I was mean, strict, and devoid of real love. I spoke to my siblings the way I was spoken to as a child, and it wasn’t nice. The guilt ate me alive, yet I struggled to apologize. Therapy helped, and learned simply be a sister instead of teetering on the edges between being a mother and being a sister; but the pivotal change came when my goddaughter was born.

I never thought I’d love anyone as much as I love her, in the way I love her. She softened me in all the right ways, and my pregnancy steeled my spine in ways I never imagined. I knew what kind of mother I wanted to be and the family I wanted to create.

But the path to gentleness can be violent. Sometimes that violence is being willing to be perceived as the villain for refusing to be the bigger person, for setting strict boundaries to protect my heart and mind from certain people.

If I can’t have the relationships I wished for with my existing family, I’ll make sure to build them with the family I’m creating. I want to stress that I tried because I never want it thrown in my face that I didn’t. I’m a reader, and I love fictional worlds where families have healthy relationships and wear matching ugly Christmas sweaters. That’s my delusion, my fantasy.

My sister and I had a falling out. She did something she promised she wouldn’t, and I can’t stand liars. Our fights get bad, and we go months without speaking. Like me, she was raised by a man who never believes he’s wrong. She’s also only twenty, so I could only extend my grace so far before realizing I was enabling her behavior. In therapy, I expressed my desire to learn how to forgive.

Forgiveness isn’t something that came easily to me, especially when I was never surrounded by people who apologized.

During my sessions, I was often asked about conflict resolution, but I was too pregnant to care about people I hadn’t seen in months, my sister included. I didn’t sweep things under the rug; I just couldn’t be bothered with the stress. Now, I’ve let it go. Whether she apologizes or not, it no longer matters. She’s young and will continue to make mistakes—that’s life. It’s no longer my job to guide her or be her friend.

Next is my adoptive mother, my mother’s older sister. This relationship is particularly triggering because she’s loved by many, which makes it hard for me to talk about. People are quick to defend her, leaving me feeling defeated and powerless. Besides enabling her abusive husband, she was the source of many of my body issues. Comments like, “You eat too much,” “Your face is too pimply,” and my personal favorite “I’m better looking than you,” when she’s over 20 years my senior, cut deep.

In a previous post, I mentioned the attempt to raise all the kids equally, but her husband’s contempt for me was clear, and her remarks only reinforced that equality failed. We all felt the effects of living with an angry man, but I firmly believe I experienced a different set of parents compared to my cousins. One day, I was filled with 20 years of rage.

Her response was, “I’m so speechless…will call you later, and get to hear gore go senyegile fa kae..” (I’ll call you to discuss where things went wrong).

She never called, which I expected. In 2017, after a serious domestic violence incident in the household, my mental health spiraled. We ended up in the guidance counselor’s office because of intense suicidal ideation. I was always crying in class, and some teachers thought it was due to boy troubles—messy and misguided. In other words, loud and WRONG. To them, I say a big “FU.” Both fingers. My ‘mother’s’ tears and apologies felt hollow and one thing I’m not is Boo-Boo the Fool.

Her behavior will always hurt me, one of my aunts who grew up in a similar situation advised me to remember that I’m not actually her child, despite what my legal documents say. She gives me a place to stay, and for that, I’m grateful. But I’ve learned to accept that what I have is enough. I’m allowed to get sad before letting it go. 

These experiences are things I’m still healing from, and it’s a never-ending process. But I’ve had to heal because, despite still figuring out this life thing, I know what I don’t want to be. I will never burden my daughter with fixing something she didn’t break. She’ll inevitably see the worst of me, or parts of me I don’t wish for her to see, but she’ll always get the best of me too.