My father was obviously gay, though came from a time where is wasn’t readily accepted and still considered a crime. He also had difficulties with reading and writing. When my mother was pregnant with me, he couldn’t even look at her.

He spent his life as an extremely cruel, bitter, angry, aggressive man, drinking himself into oblivion every night in gay hang outs, before coming home to terrorise my mother, whilst I lay in bed, frozen with fear, listening to him smashing crockery and calling her vile names.

He barely noticed I existed.

We were dirt poor and lived in a house with no running water and no heating until I was 12. Meanwhile, my father spent ‘his’ money on race horses and gold jewellery that he enjoyed taunting us about how much he’d paid for it.

My mother was separated from her mother due to her being hospitalised with TB whilst pregnant. My grandmother experienced a late term abortion of the baby and was very ill for several years. She was gone so long my mother failed to recognise her during hospital visits, and my mother was brought up by her father in those crucial early years.

Her relationship with her mother was always distant and disconnected, and when my mother’s brother came along much later in life, my grandmother treated him like the son she’d lost, and doted on him. He was dysfunctional, impossible and all round weird, staying single, with no friends and living with her til the day she died. My mother resented him hugely but never admitted it.

The consequence of all this is that she too became a narcissist, obsessed with her looks, terrified of aging, entirely lacking in any empathy or human compassion, very judgemental of others, self righteous and a critical non supportive parent.

The only reason she’s ever given for marrying my abusive father is that he was ‘good looking’.

I learned early on that I was a nuisance, a general disappointment and failure.

My mother repeatedly told me to ‘never have children’ (she only had one, me) and that she’d always wanted 2 boys, never a girl. She also relayed all the gory details of how my father’s attitude to her became worse when she was pregnant (thus, my fault) and that my birth was so traumatic it almost killed her and stopped her from having any more children. She was disappointed with the way I looked, my shyness, lack of friends…..

then, of course, when I finally came out of my shell and started to shine and socialise, that too was a problem.

To this day she won’t come visit me or let me visit her (we live a way from each other). I know this is because I remind her of her younger self, and she can’t stand it.

Despite my useless failure status, before I’d even left primary school I learned that one way to get some attention was to be my mother’s confidante and support system. This I was ‘good’ at. I prided myself on all the adult situations I’d learned about before I even hit puberty.

I felt stuck in the middle. Trying to keeping the peace, supporting my mother (whilst she deliberately alienated me from my father) and placating my father by making sure I didn’t do anything to ‘annoy’ him.

Crimes such as me not doing the washing up was a good excuse to go out get raging drunk then come back and terrorise my mother….and that, I knew, would be MY fault.

I was her protector and the household peace maker as a child and in my teens, and eventually, in my 20’s, whilst holding down a very high pressure job and negotiating a toxic personal relationship of my own, helped her leave my father, whilst also propping him up through the experience.

They BOTH mentally and emotionally fell apart, neither able to cope with the separation. I again was the only responsible adult. AS USUAL. I’ve always said I don’t want children as I already had a boy and a girl, it’s just they were my parents……

Now as a grown adult, having navigated the rocky road to adulthood through travel, a lot of drugs and more than the occasional brush with the law, (and with severe mental health issues, now regulated through medication as nothing else has ever worked – C-PTSD, OCD, GAD, intrusive thoughts, chronic ruminating, the list is endless – though no one knows unless I tell them, because I’ve learned how to pretend I’m OK), and I and my partner’s rescue animals are my family.

Now. When they become sick and / or need the vet, I completely freak out. Panic mode.

The lack of control, my lack of trust, and the fact I can’t ‘fix’ it sends me into an anxiety spiral that almost drives me to suicide, as I just can’t handle the abject TERROR I feel when this happens.

It’s actually right now, during one of just these episodes involving one of our rescue cats (and having increased my SSRI dosage because of the last vet related episode), that I’ve begun to realise the very real terror I feel during these times has NOTHING to do with what’s going on now….its me ‘remembering’ how I felt back then…..

When bad things ALWAYS happened if I wasn’t in total control of the situation.

Father passed some years back. I have finally learned the art of total indifference with my mother, who is aging like only a classic narcissist can.

I’m due to turn 60 soon, and I feel like I can FINALLY look forward to spending whats left of my life NOT feeling I am personally responsible for absolutely everything and everyone all the time.

Kathy, thank you for taking the time to write such a full and honest response. I am sorry I am only seeing this now. For some reason, I have not been receiving comment notifications, so I missed it when you first posted. What you described is exactly the kind of hidden survival history this article was meant to name. Being praised as mature while carrying anxiety, shame, grief, loneliness, suicidal thoughts, and responsibility far beyond your age is one of the cruelest parts of parentification. The outside world sees the capable child. It often misses the frightened child underneath who had no safe place to fall apart. I am especially struck by how long you kept trying to help, serve, protect, volunteer, care for others, and stay useful while your own pain went unseen. That is a nervous system that learned very early how much safety, belonging, and worth were tied to responsibility. I am very glad you eventually found people who listened without judgment, and later a professional who believed you and helped you rebuild slowly instead of pushing you to perform recovery. That kind of steady support is important. What you wrote near the end is extra-powerful: that you are genuine, that you matter, that there is love, that you are loved, and that you are meant to be treated with respect. After everything you described, that is not a small realization. That is hard-earned truth.

Then, 8 years later, after leaving the abusive counsellor, I returned to a 12 step group. I was completely broken at this point…with zero idea of what to do. I had exhausted all the options I knew. I had several women talk to me after meetings…I felt like they listened without judgement or advice.

One woman took me 4 months later to an inpatient program with an excellent doctor. I heard people talk about what happened to them. I saw how they felt…or did not feel anything. I identified with the deepest feelings of aloneness in pain, the desire to disappear or die, the inability to trust or believe in anything.

From this treatment, I went on to another inpatient program for PTSD. I began meeting with a new professional for counselling. After 19 yrs. he retired. He listened to me and gently offered support or guidance to take care of myself, to find, know and set my boundaries,to reduce my sense of responsibility in my relationships; he believed me when I told him how the counsellor abused and conned me for 7 years. Very, very slowly I became more connected to myself…my panicked state very slowly and graduallly lessened. I began to go out…to exercise, to have a tea or coffee, to go to a concert or dance performance, to go to an art gallery or a street festival.

I became engaged with the spirit of a community festival….and joined in as a volunteer for 10 years. I loved the festival…it touched my soul. I went from there to a community resource centre where I volunteered for 10 years. I learned about the 150+ non profits and charitable organizations in my community. I became trained to help others in the community. This was a very enjoyable and rewarding place to be. The staff and volunteers were cooperative, not competitive. There was an atmosphere of trust and common purpose…for community well being.

Then COVID happened. Being in isolation really challenged my CPTSD. I hung on with the help of my partner, my cat, my counselling doctor, music, community music on YouTube from around the world. It was a long stretch of being alone…I slept through most days, unable to sleep at night.
I endured my chronic pain conditions without my daily distractions of going out to volunteer, meet for coffee or supper with a friend or my partner.

I experimented with new strategies re: CPTSD…In the past year, with the support of a new 12 step group I discovered online, I am feeling less alone. I have a community online. I am focussing on self care, body care, kindness and compassion towards myself…in my thoughts and in my actions.
I recognize after all these years…that I am a genuine person, that I do matter, that there is love, that I am loved, that life never stays the same and accepting this lessens my panic when things change. I stick to the basics of self care each day.
I know that I am meant to be here and to be treated with respect.