My Story

Back in 2013 my stepmom died. It was sudden, unexpected, and it broke something inside me. Losing her was confusing, to put it mildly. Throughout my childhood and youth, she was the devil to me – my abuser and tormentor – but also someone whose love and acceptance I always longed for, even if I’m hard pressed admitting it.

The last five years or so before her death were an emotional turmoil for me. A car accident almost claimed the lives of her and my father, and it changed her in the way that near death experiences will sometimes do to a person. She started talking about appreciating life and people, and she became less volatile towards me. Getting a tiny fraction of care from her, I was childishly and desperately hopeful that she finally started seeing me as the person I am, as opposed to the usual symbol of all her problems. Later , thinking back, I would be utterly embarrassed by how I allowed both her and my father to treat me as an adult, was it not for finally understanding how completely traumatized I was and have been most of my life. Theoretically, I knew I deserved better but the mere possibility of receiving love and approval was so strong I would happily compromise myself a thousand times over to get a fraction of what I so desperately craved.

In 2012, at my thirtieth birthday, I held a small gathering for those closest to me. Although we had been together for many years, I had always avoided letting my dad and stepmom meet my boyfriend’s family. I knew how toxic they were and I never wanted to inflict that on his family. I was ashamed of my family and subconsciously I was terrified that their bad behavior would reflect poorly on me – that somehow they would be able to convince his family that I was as terrible as they thought me to be. I didn’t want to spend years listening to them judging and badmouthing my in-laws. I never wanted them to meet and have a chance to taint my new family. I also didn’t see a way out of it, I’d used up every excuse I could find over the years, so I invited everyone and hoped for the best. It was literally the worst. They were embarrassing and rude and I wanted to jump into the ocean, never to resurface ever again. When they left I apologized to everyone else, I had to. The rest of my birthday was good, fun even. His family still loved me.

I was angry, though, and I didn’t speak to my dad and stepmom for several months, not until their 25^th anniversary party later that year. I sat at the main table, in front of at least 60 people, and listened to my dad’s speech to my stepmom, where he proclaimed that unfortunately they never had any children. She literally had to remind him in front of everyone, that I was sitting right next to him and technically counted as their child™, even if I wasn’t biologically hers. My boyfriend at the time later told me that he heard other guests whisper the same things amongst themselves. “What about her?”

The lamest thing was; as much as that hurt, I felt loved because she pointed out that I existed. That’s how damaged I was. I truly felt like this was a step in the right direction towards a better relationship with her. If she would finally love me, maybe my dad would, too. Up until her death I was convinced that he only withheld love from me because he was being considerate of her and her pain from not being able to have a child of her own, me being a constant reminder of that fact. That’s what I told myself to explain his lack of love, both as a child and as an adult. He was withholding out of consideration for her. After all, being loved less than someone else is better than not being loved at all. I stuck with that story until her death six months later, and for a good while after that.

I was in the middle of final exams and about to start writing my Bachelor Thesis, when I woke up to a voicemail from my dad. She’d had what appeared to be a stroke, while sleeping. He had tried to revive her, but she was gone, 53 years old. The week was a blur. I cried a lot, mostly because the rest of the family were grieving and I felt their pain. I sat between her mother and my dad, both crying, and listened to the priest talk about how wonderful she was, how she always helped other and took care of everyone because she had such a big heart. I wanted to scream. I didn’t know this person they were talking about. When the priest listed all the important people in her life and how this loss affected them, she didn’t once mention me. This woman married my father when I was five years old and it was like I might as well have not existed. Another slap in the face, in front of everyone. I convinced myself that my dad was grieving and simply didn’t think about it when talking to the priest beforehand, just as the priest had to suggest that my name was on the death announcement in the paper earlier that week, because my dad only added his own and my stepmoms mother and siblings names. He was just in shock and forgot me… again. Right? I was being too sensitive, probably. My best friend was at the back of the church and took my hand as we walked alongside the casket. When everything was done and I had shaken hands with 100+ people who had no idea who I was, my friend pulled me aside and said: “WTF was that speech?” and to this day I am so thankful that she acknowledged how fucked up this funeral was, because I honestly felt like I was losing my mind at that point. It was as if a hundred people got up that day and decided to gaslight me into thinking that I never existed. After that it was hours of awkward family gathering. We (my dad) had not spoken to half my stepmom’s family in years, which made everything extra uncomfortable, and every minute felt like an hour. I went back home that day and did a skype session with my study group, with exams coming up I had to get back to work. Everything felt surreal. I did well on my final exams, although I have no recollection of attending any of them, and made sure to update my father on the results. He was happy for me, seemed proud, and I was so damn sure this would be the start of our relationship, of me finally being close with my dad now that I didn’t have to compete for his love.

Things went somewhat back to normal. My boyfriend and I made sure to see my dad more, help him out with whatever we could. For a long while, he refused to get rid of any of her things and only talked about gardening. I’m not sure exactly when he started talking about dating again, but it was probably a while after mentioning the possibility of buying a Russian wife. He mentioned it several times, that some of his friends kept joking that he should join these parties where one could come and meet Russian women looking for a better life. He downplayed the idea as absurd, but mentioned it a few too many times to ignore. Not long after, he had a new girlfriend. He invited us to a restaurant for his birthday, along with the new girlfriend and my stepmoms brother and sister-in-law, whom he’d remained friends with. His new girlfriend was not at all what I expected, appearance or personality wise. She was actually nice and she looked like a hippie, basically the exact opposite of my father. She seemed less rigid than my stepmom, she actually reminded me a bit of my mother. For an hour or two, I thought that my dad had just made a terrible mistake marrying my stepmother and staying with her all those years, but now he was wiser, a better man, and he had found someone more his type, you know… less sociopathic. We’d been at the table for maybe an hour and a half when I excused myself to go grab a smoke. The new girlfriend said she’d join me. I almost fell off my chair. My dad is so against smoking, I only started as a teenager to piss him off, he would never date a smoker. I was confused. We went outside and she started talking immediately. She said my dad had a lot of resentment towards my mother, a lot of anger, said it didn’t seem healthy. She was very observant and described things about him I knew all too well, but also stuff I didn’t know. I didn’t trust her enough to divulge any information about him to her, and thinking back now I can see that it did overstep my boundaries, especially because I was used to not trusting anyone related to my dad. But I also remember thinking that she was the kind of stepmom I would appreciate. She was empathetic, honest and direct – but without the usual toxic behavior. She made me hopeful that I was indeed on my way to a better relationship with my dad, that she could help broker it.

The relationship only lasted a few months, though, and I didn’t see her again. My dad called and complained about it, called her lazy and said they were not a match. I was disappointed but reveled in the fact that my dad had called me, that we were talking like adults, and the possibility of being helpful to him when it came to navigating his new single life pleased me more than it should have. He didn’t listen much to my advice but I dismissed it. I didn’t care as long as we were talking. I enjoyed that we had actual conversations, something we never had before. Talking to him always felt like scheduling a business meeting, so this was new and exciting for me.

A few months later he had a new girlfriend and wanted me to meet her. He invited my boyfriend and I to his home, again along with my stepmom’s brother and his wife. The new girlfriend was different to the last. Less empathetic, more orderly, but still nice enough. She was chronically ill and volunteered to help others in similar situations trying to navigate the health care system. I think he liked that she was fighting the system. I did, too. We didn’t connect immediately like I had with the previous girlfriend, but I figured it’d come, we just had to get to know each other. So when she pulled me aside that afternoon, I was friendly and open to connecting with her. Like the first girlfriend, this one was direct, too. She hadn’t spoken more than three sentences to me that day, when she looked me right in the eyes and said I was disappointing my father and should try to see him more. At first I thought I miss heard her, but she expanded on her statement, saying that he was sad that I never made time to see him, and I should make more of an effort. She implied that I was being disrespectful, that I owed him more than the time I could currently give him, well knowing that I had just aced my bachelor thesis and all my final exams, and lived in a different part of the country than him. I was honestly shocked that this woman would not only judge me, but tell me to my face on the very first day I met her. I was also confused about what my dad had told her to make her believe this was true. Especially because I wasn’t doing well at all since my stepmom died and the pressure of school and traveling to see my dad as much as I could, was starting to wear me down. It felt like a slap in the face, again, at a family gathering where I felt ambushed. I meekly tried defending myself, but I was so angry I was shaking. As usual, I managed to conceal my mental meltdown from the rest of the family. We left soon after that. I cried in the car most of the way home. That is when I realized, my dad had complained to not one, but two girlfriends now, to the extent that they felt the need to soothe his anger and fix his problems for him, either by his indirect manipulation, or direct request to do so. I chose not to contact him for a while. He called a few months later, complaining about this girlfriend as well, that her illness was too much to deal with. I jumped right back in with the advice, but the more he talked the more I realized how emotionally stunted he was. At that point, I had finished school, and been diagnosed with severe depression. I was starting to realize just how emotionally immature he was, and I was having trouble accepting it because it felt like my idea of a loving father was slipping further away with every word that came out of his mouth. He broke up with the girlfriend, which was probably best for both of them, and me.

It was 2014 and it felt like my mental health kept deteriorating. At the time, I felt like I hit rough bottom. We still saw my dad, but I had difficulty keeping up with his demands. At one point we were visiting him and I felt like I needed to explain just how low I was. I told him that my depression was bad and that I had difficulty getting out of bed, taking care of basic things like showers and food, much less keeping up with various appointments, including plans with family and friends. I told him because his last girlfriend had made it clear that he felt neglected, and I didn’t want him to think I didn’t care. I wanted him to know that he was a priority, but I was struggling. He looked me deadpan in the eyes and started talking about his garden projects. Telling him was difficult. I felt vulnerable, something that has never felt safe to be around him, and I was baffled by his hurtful behavior. At the time, I was attending a depression education group, something mandated by the Danish healthcare system in order to receive benefits. They convinced me that he probably had a difficult time accepting that his child was sick, maybe he was in denial. I was unsure, but it was a nicer story than any alternative I could think of. Either way, I was starting to withdraw from everyone and everything, including him. A few months later, I had a missed call and a voice mail from him. I had taken what he deemed, too long replying to a request for us to come visit him and he was furious. He was spitting the words out on my voice mail; he didn’t want to be a laughing stock, it was completely unacceptable that I couldn’t get back to him in regards to a simple request and he was fucking sick of it. He hadn’t spoken to me like that in years and it felt like a slap in the face, especially because I had tried telling him that I was struggling with this exact thing, making plans while being severely depressed and fighting with pretty heavy side effects of various antidepressants, sleeping pills and anti-anxiety medication.

I was finally done. I deliberately waited a few days, to make a point but also to calm down, because I was furious. I knew that would get me nowhere, though. When I calmed down and had a clear mind, I texted him saying that this was crossing a boundary for me. It was one thing that he looked me straight in the face and did not even acknowledge me when I told him I was sick. It was another to demand I stop having symptoms and shame me for it, even yell at me, on a voicemail of all things. I was polite but made it clear what we would need to talk face to face, about many things, before making any more plans. Plans, which usually consisted of him pestering my boyfriend about fixing his phone and laptop, both virus infected as usual. He completely ignored that message and instead announced that he had a new girlfriend and they would love to come visit us and when would be a good time for us to host them. I once again stated that no more plans would be made, before he and I had a chance to talk in private, that I had things I needed to talk about. He insisted that it would be better if he and the new girlfriend came to visit us. Only on third try did he respond to my request, saying it sounded like he was apparently ruining my life and perhaps it’d be better if he left me alone. It was meant as a threat, an ultimatum. I replied that this, him leaving me alone, was by no means my wish, that I would like the exact opposite – for us to see each other, just him and me, and talk this out. I wanted to have a father. He replied that he and his girlfriend would love to come visit us. I told him no, but he knew where to find me if he changed his mind. We didn’t talk for months. He contacted me, tried to get an invite for him and the girlfriend. I replied no. He texted my boyfriend, said “they needed to have a talk about what was going on with me”, suggesting that I was mentally unstable and incapable of making this decision. When my boyfriend didn’t reply, he called my mother-in-law, a woman he had met twice, at a birthday, years ago and a few months prior when I invited both of them for Christmas at our house. He told her that he was on his way to the hospital, he was in an ambulance right now, and that he was so disappointed in the way I had abandoned him, that she needed to talk some sense into me. He wasn’t in an ambulance, btw, I checked. Almost a year went by. Radio silence, then a proposal to meet up with him and the girlfriend. At one point, I got a group email invite for their wedding. I didn’t reply. His new wife, whom I never met, started sending me messages on Facebook, trying to guilt me into seeing him, many of the same talking points the last girlfriend gave. How disappointed he was, that they would love to see us. All this happened while I was trying to undergo treatment, first for severe depression, later diagnosed with two personality disorders, according to the psychiatrist due to growing up with severe emotional abuse. In a weird way, I’m thankful for his behavior spinning out of control at this point. If not, I might never have let myself realize that he’s a narcissist. I might have never realized that I do not have several personality disorders I have a hard time relating to. I had Complex PTSD because I was abused throughout my childhood. It opened a door to somewhere in the darkest corner of my mind; of verbal abuse, intentional humiliations, and of being so terrified that it affected most, if not all, of my life decisions until I was in my mid thirties. Finding out, opened a floodgate of memories and prompted a lot of questions about my life with my mom, too. How didn’t she know about the abuse, and how did it affect my life that she raised me in a religious cult? I had always asked zero questions about her, because to me, she was the good parent. I needed a good parent to prove to myself that I wasn’t completely unlovable. Now I had to reevaluate my life with her as well and deal with the trauma of being forced to grow up inside the organization of Jehovah’s Witnesses. That’s a whole other story, which I’ll save for another time and place. For now, I’ll say this:

My stepmom’s death didn’t just turn my life around, it obliterated me. I had to peel away who I had become because of trauma, and at times I felt like there was nothing left. It was often scary but now, looking back, I realize I was never really myself. I didn’t know who myself was. I was never allowed to be anything other than what my parents expected me to be. Burning that old version of me to the ground was freeing. It made room for the real, actual me to come into being. I won’t lie and say it hasn’t been, and some times still is, difficult to work though, and it’s been a long process. I don’t regret it for a second, though. Learning from everything I had to go through alone, I hope I can make healing childhood trauma easier for others. If not easier, then at least less lonely. I now know and understand my symptoms, and everything that triggered them. I know how to process deep hurt and move on to living a better life. There is nothing I want more than to share how to do that. It’s so incredibly empowering to take control of your life – not by avoiding it, but by living it fully and knowing you have the strength to not only survive, but thrive.