The Childhood They Never Saw

I used to think survival meant silence.

I learned early how to move fast. Cook fast. Clean fast. Fix things fast. Don’t take too long. Don’t leave a mess. Don’t give anyone a reason to get upset.

I rush when I cook to this day. Not because I have to, but because somewhere deep inside me, I still hear my mother’s voice telling me to hurry up. I still feel the tension of not doing it right or fast enough. I still brace for criticism that isn’t even there anymore.

I panic over little messes because growing up, little things felt enormous. I was always being corrected, watched, pressured. It’s strange how decades later, your nervous system still reacts to ghosts.

And then there’s my father.

He was mean. Cruel in ways I carried for years. He called me names no 12 or 13-year-old girl should ever hear — tramp, whore. He told me his marriage to my mom would have stayed good if my brother and I hadn’t been born. Imagine that. A child believing she ruined something simply by existing. I spent my teenage years and much of my adult life going through men, chasing validation and safety, trying to find the love I didn’t get at home.

Children in our house were to be seen and not heard. I wasn’t a daughter — I was an extra set of hands. Make the tea. Turn the TV channel. Stay quiet. Don’t question. Don’t feel too much.

My mother was my safe place as a child. She tucked me in every night. She said, “I love you. Sweet dreams. See you in the morning.” We said prayers before bed. She was warmth. She was strong. She was my world.

But she could also compare. When I was a teenager, she would make comments about her own appearance compared to mine, things like how much better she looked than me. And growing up, my brother was spoiled. If he wanted something it didn't have to be his birthday, or Christmas, just a day ending in Y — he got it. The excuse was that he had learning disabilities (what they now call ADD or ADHD). I got good grades and didn’t have any issues, so I wasn't rewarded, not even a good job was told to me, but if I got in trouble, the punishment was strict: grounded, no phone, no roller skating, no privileges. My brother could get in trouble, and it was excused or overlooked. That favoritism and constant comparison left marks I only recognized decades later.

As I got older, I learned more about my mom’s story. Her mother was mentally ill and institutionalized when my mom was under ten. She had a strict father and a harsher stepmother. She had suffered, and maybe that shaped how she navigated life and her parenting. She could be harsh at times, but she also did so much for me and my children. I am thankful for every sacrifice she made, every moment she cared for us, and every way she loved us.

After my divorce, I moved up north with my four kids. My dad let us stay with him, and for the first time in decades, we found a rhythm — just father and daughter. Every Tuesday, we went to the casino for slot tournaments. Simple, yes, but it was connection I had never had.

A month later, my mom moved up here too. She babysat my kids so I could spend time with my dad. But even this love and help always came with a price. She constantly reminded me that she had done everything, that if it weren’t for her, none of this would have been possible. She bought the house for all of us, but it was held over my head. She told me I couldn’t have friends around, especially guys, even if they were just friends. She compared herself to me again, telling me she was prettier, better, more accomplished. About 10 years ago, it escalated: she grabbed me by the throat telling me she hated me, she hit me, swung at me, and threatened me constantly. Living under the same roof with her became a battlefield — love and abuse tangled together in ways I didn’t understand at the time.

I drove her to appointments. I cooked for her. I tried to make her life easier. And she sometimes criticized me — even while I was trying to help — but she also appreciated the efforts in her own way. These were the moments I understood how complicated love could be.

Years after I moved up here, my father was diagnosed with cancer. During that time, our relationship shifted, and he finally told me, “I know I wasn’t a good dad, but I do love you.” Those words, so late in life, were everything I had been waiting for.

Three years ago, my mom became very sick. She struggled with her health and later with COVID. Her mind sometimes faltered, and I saw changes that made me realize she may have had early dementia. I spent every moment I could with her in the hospital. I called constantly to check on her. There were moments of frustration....she criticized me, shouted, and sometimes seemed cold, but there were also moments of apology, moments of love, moments where she simply could not find the words.

The last time I saw her alive, she looked at me with the coldest eyes I had ever seen. She screamed at me, called me a liar, and told me to leave. It crushed me. I knew she was sick, her oxygen low, and that dying can twist a mind. I had promised her I would take her home, and in that moment, I saw pain and rejection that cut deeply. She passed on March 6, 2022.

All of this — the rush, the panic over messes, the over-giving, the over-protectiveness, the self-doubt, the search for validation — it all comes from what I endured. I was a child expected to survive in a house that had a father who never offered softness, love, or safety. A mother who loved, but played favortism and campared. I grew into an adult who loved my children fiercely, sometimes too fiercely, because I knew what it felt like to be unseen, unheard, or unloved. I worried about them constantly. I protected them in ways that some people might think extreme, but it came from knowing how fragile safety can be. I celebrated their victories, shielded them from harm as much as I could, and fiercely defended them when others failed to. I gave them the love I sometimes didn’t get as a child — and it was everything I had to give.

I chased love because I was shamed. I rushed and cleaned because criticism was ingrained. I stayed silent because speaking up could cost me. And I learned that love and protection were my way of rewriting my childhood for my children — giving them what I never fully had.

And only recently did it all surface. A few weeks ago, my brother and I talked about growing up — about the names we were called, about feeling unsafe and unseen — and suddenly it hit me. The fear, the shame, the trauma I had carried silently for decades finally came to the surface.

I realize now that I’ve lived with this trauma my whole life, and only now am I able to see it, name it, and begin to process it.

Here’s what I also know:

I am not the names I was called.

I am not the mistakes they said I made.

I am not the emotional debt I carried.

I am a woman who survived.

I am a mother who loves fiercely.

I am a daughter who can honor both the love and the hurt.

I am the cycle breaker.

And I am choosing myself now. Choosing boundaries. Choosing peace. Choosing freedom from the ghosts I carried silently for decades.

I can love my parents and acknowledge the good they gave me. I can also acknowledge the pain I endured. Both are true. And finally, I can breathe through it, unpack it, and move forward — whole, seen, and no longer silent.

Peace, Love and Loud Music (it is what has saved me)

Mickey

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LypjOTTH6E