My hip dislocated when I was 14, and stayed that way for three years. Throughout all that timer my mom insisted that I was faking it. That I really could run and play and move freely but chose not to for attention. I rarely brought it up. My hip hurt either way, but my heart hurt when she called me a liar. Eventually I couldn’t walk at all and I had no choice but to demand real healthcare. We got scans of my hip.
Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis with degenerative tendinitis, they said. “She just needs to do hip exercises and if problems persist they are her fault,” my mom heard. There was not a single day my hip was her fault. Now she was rewritten history so that she took me to a doctor right away. I have years of diaries saying otherwise, and years of hip damage too. The last time I bothered to yell at her, this is what I yelled about. She still clings to her new history written by gas lighting.
I had an unhappy abusive childhood and the only way out was cohabitation. I moved in with my awful, abusive, alcoholic, cheating boyfriend and eventual husband to get away from my mother. Then I moved in with my mother to get away from him. Then I married him to get back away from him, then finally left him and took refuge with her. I had no safe loving home to go to, so I went to the least worst home at a given moment. It was exhausting.
When I was married and in labor and the nurses were callous and awful, my mother came to my defense. She was my hero in that moment and I loved her for it. But six weeks later when my ankle was broken and my lout of a husband couldn’t be trusted to watch the baby long enough for me to go to the ER to have it set, she wouldn’t come to my rescue. Instead she watched as a family friend laid hands on in me in prayer then sucked me into het MLM sales team. My ankle healed wrong.
I’ve spent my whole life making excuses for my mom: she was very important, very busy. I was her daughter. That makes me important. I should have felt loved. I deserved to have my health needs met and I didn’t. I deserved eyeglasses. I deserved birth control. I deserved sex education. I deserved pain management I didn’t have to buy myself behind the mall in little baggies. I deserved to not have to raise myself. I deserved better than I got, and I’m gonna stop feeling like a traitorous daughter for saying so.