I Am A Victim Of Emotional Abuse And Verbal Abuse
When I was in my early teens, my mother yelled at me a lot and did her best to make me feel humiliated and sad. I cried when this happened and she would smile a small sadistic smile and keep it up until I was sobbing. She didn't hit me very often; just now and then to show me she could, and when she did, she hit hard.
She had a way of making sure that, if I cried, I would keep it up for many hours. If she started on me in the late afternoon, I would still be crying at 10:00 PM.
Here is how she did it: She would tell me how awful I was (usually over some little mistake I made like putting my shoes away in the wrong part of the closet). She would get nastier and nastier, saying things that were extremely hurtful, until I cried and that little sadistic smile began to bloom in her face. Then she'd get worse until I was sobbing
and begging her to stop, apologizing over and over. Eventually, she'd exit the room leaving me in hysterics sobbing and wishing I were dead.
It would take me some time to stop crying, maybe 15 or 20 minutes. I knew I had to stop or I would never get my homework done. Gradually I would bring myself under control. I knew I needed two things to part from my mother; turning 18, and having a high school diploma. And I'd never get that diploma without doing what my teachers assigned me. With that motivation, I would get myself to stop sobbing. Then I'd go into the bathroom and wash my face and splash cold water on it. Then, I would take some deep breaths and convince myself to do my homework.
As I approached my desk where my schoolwork and notebooks awaited my attention, the door would open and...my mother would return. And begin where she left off.
Once again, she would work her evil verbal magic on me until I started crying again and not stop until I was sobbing, fully convinced I deserved having a mother who loathed and dispised me, ready to apologize just for my existence. Eventually she'd quit and, finally, leave the room.
Once again, I would work at pulling myself together but it was harder the second time. It would take longer. But eventually I would manage it and sit down to do my homework, a box of Kleenex by my side.
And then, at the exact moment my tears finally dried up, that door would open again and my mother would start me up again with more insults and relentless screaming.
This would go on for hours. Sometimes I would give up on my homework that night and set my alarm an hour early so I could get it done in the early morning. Or get to school early enough to complete it in the school library.
This happened about 3 to 6 times a week. It drained me of a lot of energy and all my youthful optimism.
What really drove me crazy was trying to figure out how my mother always knew the exact minute when I'd manage to get my tears under control. It was such perfect timing. Just as I got to feeling better, that door would open and within a minute or two I'd be in tears again,and she'd get that little smile of satisfaction and superiority as she watched me. How could she know exactly when to attack me again? How did she figure it out?
It was many years before I knew the answer to that but I won't make you wait that long to find out. It was actually pretty simple. She had no special insight or some kind of ESP or psychic ability. She had a hidden camera in my room. This was what she did when she wanted to know more about someone; surveillance. In her position in CP security (known as Internal Security) she could easily arrange to spy on anyone any time she wanted to. People lived in fear of her; she could, and would, find out anything about anyone she wanted to know about the people around her. (For the underlying details, you can read my Featured story which is on here under my Profile). All she had to do was look at some kind of monitor, probably in her closet, and watch me to see when I started to regain control, and then rush back to my room and start me up again. And doing things like this made her feel strong, powerful and very much in control of her pathetic little weepy daughter. She radiated contempt when she looked at me and often called me names like "crybaby." Having this kind of power made her feel like a queen. And I hated myself for being so stupidly weak and crying so much.
But at least now I know that she was not supernaturally strong or incredibly smart and perceptive. She was technologically equipped and had a lot of support from a powerful group of people who pretty much agreed with her that anyone not accepted into the CP youth training programs was human garbage.
Bullies come in all types. I had to deal with a school bully in my childhood who punched me and teased me every morning before school. But nothing hurt as much as these off and on emotional battering sessions timed to keep me crying for hours, designed to foment self hatred and depression, and carefully timed and orchestrated for maximum misery. And for many years I thought these sessions happened because I was such a bad daughter and all around idiot that I deserved them and also because my mother was brilliantly perceptive and had my mind and crybaby habits mapped out. But all she had was access to the kind of thing that would eventually become all too common in my world; above state of the art surveillance that included a good camera and ethics that belonged in the city dump.
She had a way of making sure that, if I cried, I would keep it up for many hours. If she started on me in the late afternoon, I would still be crying at 10:00 PM.
Here is how she did it: She would tell me how awful I was (usually over some little mistake I made like putting my shoes away in the wrong part of the closet). She would get nastier and nastier, saying things that were extremely hurtful, until I cried and that little sadistic smile began to bloom in her face. Then she'd get worse until I was sobbing
and begging her to stop, apologizing over and over. Eventually, she'd exit the room leaving me in hysterics sobbing and wishing I were dead.
It would take me some time to stop crying, maybe 15 or 20 minutes. I knew I had to stop or I would never get my homework done. Gradually I would bring myself under control. I knew I needed two things to part from my mother; turning 18, and having a high school diploma. And I'd never get that diploma without doing what my teachers assigned me. With that motivation, I would get myself to stop sobbing. Then I'd go into the bathroom and wash my face and splash cold water on it. Then, I would take some deep breaths and convince myself to do my homework.
As I approached my desk where my schoolwork and notebooks awaited my attention, the door would open and...my mother would return. And begin where she left off.
Once again, she would work her evil verbal magic on me until I started crying again and not stop until I was sobbing, fully convinced I deserved having a mother who loathed and dispised me, ready to apologize just for my existence. Eventually she'd quit and, finally, leave the room.
Once again, I would work at pulling myself together but it was harder the second time. It would take longer. But eventually I would manage it and sit down to do my homework, a box of Kleenex by my side.
And then, at the exact moment my tears finally dried up, that door would open again and my mother would start me up again with more insults and relentless screaming.
This would go on for hours. Sometimes I would give up on my homework that night and set my alarm an hour early so I could get it done in the early morning. Or get to school early enough to complete it in the school library.
This happened about 3 to 6 times a week. It drained me of a lot of energy and all my youthful optimism.
What really drove me crazy was trying to figure out how my mother always knew the exact minute when I'd manage to get my tears under control. It was such perfect timing. Just as I got to feeling better, that door would open and within a minute or two I'd be in tears again,and she'd get that little smile of satisfaction and superiority as she watched me. How could she know exactly when to attack me again? How did she figure it out?
It was many years before I knew the answer to that but I won't make you wait that long to find out. It was actually pretty simple. She had no special insight or some kind of ESP or psychic ability. She had a hidden camera in my room. This was what she did when she wanted to know more about someone; surveillance. In her position in CP security (known as Internal Security) she could easily arrange to spy on anyone any time she wanted to. People lived in fear of her; she could, and would, find out anything about anyone she wanted to know about the people around her. (For the underlying details, you can read my Featured story which is on here under my Profile). All she had to do was look at some kind of monitor, probably in her closet, and watch me to see when I started to regain control, and then rush back to my room and start me up again. And doing things like this made her feel strong, powerful and very much in control of her pathetic little weepy daughter. She radiated contempt when she looked at me and often called me names like "crybaby." Having this kind of power made her feel like a queen. And I hated myself for being so stupidly weak and crying so much.
But at least now I know that she was not supernaturally strong or incredibly smart and perceptive. She was technologically equipped and had a lot of support from a powerful group of people who pretty much agreed with her that anyone not accepted into the CP youth training programs was human garbage.
Bullies come in all types. I had to deal with a school bully in my childhood who punched me and teased me every morning before school. But nothing hurt as much as these off and on emotional battering sessions timed to keep me crying for hours, designed to foment self hatred and depression, and carefully timed and orchestrated for maximum misery. And for many years I thought these sessions happened because I was such a bad daughter and all around idiot that I deserved them and also because my mother was brilliantly perceptive and had my mind and crybaby habits mapped out. But all she had was access to the kind of thing that would eventually become all too common in my world; above state of the art surveillance that included a good camera and ethics that belonged in the city dump.
70-79, F
