Growing up with a shell for a mother has shaped my life both positively and negatively. Her ignorance is the result of my relationship issues; yet it is also the root of my strong will and independence.
I was seven years old when she first told me she didn’t want me. The night before, I had a temper tantrum in reaction to the irrationally instilled “absolutely no sleepovers” rule. A few slammed doors and a lot of tears shed, nothing major. The next morning, she sat me down at the kitchen table.
“In Vietnam, you listen to parent or they beat you with stick! You bite your tounguer (tongue) when you feel harsh words coming out of your mouth! Your behavior is unacceptable. You don’t need live here. We can call adoption agency right now. You can go live with another family. You never see Dad, Erik, or Karl or me again until you’re eighteen. Then, we’ll be strangers. You make a decision in ten minutes and tell ME,” she said.
I was stunned. Never had I felt so alone. When Arthur (my favorite cartoon at the time) and his mom argued, she would send him to his room and then come in an hour later with cookies and milk and they would hug and talk and forgive each other. Nowhere in that scene does his mother threaten abandonment.
In contrast to the previous night’s waterworks, I maintained a cold, hard expression throughout the ordeal. Emotion only worsens that sort of situation, weakening the victim and further instigating the crooked. As a result, I learned how to control my emotions.
Similar variations of this event occurred countless times over the years. She never physically hit me; she didn’t need to. Words were affliction enough.
Ten years have past since I declared hate on my mother. She tainted my childhood, tore away at my innocence. I was forced to grow up fast and to rely on myself to maintain my mental health from a young age.
While I haven’t exactly forgiven her, I have stopped hating her. It is difficult growing up without a...