My mother died when I was twelve. Although my biological father was a loving presence in my life, it was decided that I remain living with my stepfather, who was deemed better able to care for me. My stepfather quickly remarried, and my stepmother’s arrival marked the beginning of a cycle of torment. Once my mother was out of the picture, my stepfather began to scream as a means of control, while my stepmother either berated me with hurtful comments and cruel jokes or disregarded me altogether. I left home at eighteen to escape the toxicity and found myself alone, adrift, and eventually homeless. I struggled over the next several years to survive, all while continuing to navigate my stepparent’s mistreatment and suffering further loss within my mother’s family. All but one of my aunts and uncles passed away, as did several cousins: all tragic deaths due to disease, overdose, or suicide. Years later, my brother passed away from cirrhosis, followed by my biological father from a plethora of health and lifestyle issues.
I started going to therapy and taking antidepressants in my early twenties, continuing a variation of both over the next two decades. In my mid-forties, I was diagnosed with Complex PTSD and began working with a trauma-certified therapist. I started EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization Reprocessing) therapy to treat my C-PTSD. While doing trauma therapy I had a breakthrough, I finally understood that the way my stepparents treated me was abusive. That discovery sent me reeling as I began questioning everything I thought I knew about my upbringing. I’d always struggled to be sure about myself, now knowing it was because I was groomed to believe that my perception of reality was flawed and not to be trusted. Acknowledging that I’d suffered from childhood abuse and that the caregivers who had raised me were abusive left me feeling disoriented and distraught. I spent months digesting what I’d uncovered and struggled to make it make sense.
Once I was able to accept that I was abused, I gradually began to tell others. I started by telling my husband, and all he could do was gently nod with a look that told me he had already known this was true. Next, I told my adult children, who also seemed to comprehend what took me most of my life to figure out. After my immediate family, I started sharing with a few close friends and my in-laws. The more people I told, the less doubt I had that it was merely fiction that I’d somehow made up. I began to believe in myself and my memories. I started to feel a sense of validation; I’d been abused; it was real, and it wasn’t my fault.
I was close with a cousin on my stepdad’s side of the family; we talked and spent time together. I told her my story and filled her in on what had happened. Her reaction was vastly different from the supportive responses I had been receiving. She was outraged that I was saying that I was abused and that my stepparents were the abusers even though we were raised with the same mistreatment.
“What if they find out you’re telling people,” Beth demanded. “They would be so hurt because they love you.”
I was speechless and let her vent, wanting to understand why this was so incomprehensible to her when she experienced the abuse as well.
“And you had a biological dad; if it was so bad with Uncle Duane, why didn’t you tell your dad and make him step up? You could have gone to live with him.”
Taken aback, I answered, “Because I was a kid. I didn’t have the tools to articulate that. I never thought it was an option. That’s like when people ask an abused spouse why they didn’t just leave their abuser.”
The rest of the conversation went along similarly, with me trying to tell my story and Beth dismissing my claims in favor of shaming me. I became more incensed over the next few days as I replayed our exchange in my mind. We had been close, and I thought I could trust her; instead, she went straight to victim-blaming. Beth witnessed the screaming and the cruelty, but she didn’t perceive it as abuse. Instead, she excused it by saying, ‘That’s just how they are,’ while admonishing me for calling it out as abuse instead of keeping the secret.
“Have you heard of secondary abuse,” my therapist asked during our session the following week after I explained my conversation with Beth.
She went on to explain that secondary abuse happens when a survivor speaks up or asks for help and instead is met with invalidation or blame that causes more harm. I suppose it made sense; I’d been in therapy off and on throughout most of my life, doing intense trauma therapy for the past couple of years, and I have made significant progress. I know that Beth had some sessions in the past, but nothing related to trauma and abuse. Beth experienced the same type of abuse and had been conditioned to tolerate and hide it, just like I had.
“I wonder if Beth just isn’t at a place in her life where she’s able to acknowledge it for what it truly is,” I said. “She’s always so positive and lets everything go, maybe too positive?”
“That’s called toxic positivity,” my therapist substantiated.
After the session, I considered that Beth may not have recognized that she was gaslighting and manipulating me with secondary abuse. She was coming from a place of submission and obedience to her abusive parents. Accepting my childhood abuse could have meant she’d have to acknowledge her childhood abuse, and that may have been beyond her limits. It was likely easier for her to keep it all compartmentalized, minimize the issues, and instead dispute my claims as the person rocking the carefully constructed toxic boat.
I resolved to allow Beth and anyone else to believe whatever they needed to believe; I now know my truth. I refuse to allow others to cause me harm because they cannot or will not heal their trauma. I’ve worked hard to heal my traumas, and I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I refuse to be influenced by those who are set on upholding abusers at the expense of survivors. I’ve put boundaries in place to protect myself and my family from those who would harm us, and I will apply those boundaries to anyone who attempts to perpetuate the damage. My commitment to speaking out is unwavering; I will continue to tell my story of survival in the hope that it could guide others who still struggle.
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Sadie Montgomery was born and raised in the Midwestern United States, where she currently resides on the shore of Lake Superior with her husband and children. She is the award winning author of Atlas of Scars, her debut memoir on Complex Trauma. “I write to connect with survivors, advocate for the community, and raise awareness.”
Thank you so much for posting this. I am estranged from my sister due to this and never heard it called secondary abuse before. This really helps me to put in to perspective a few encounters I have had with people when I speak up about my childhood and why I am the way I am or I can say more accurately now, was the way I was.
This really struck home with me. For decades I tried to get some validation from others about my narcissistic, toxic mother. I was shut down with the usual: “Oh, mothers and daughters have issues.”; “Are you sure it was like that?”, “Maybe you are exaggerating it. It probably wasn’t that bad”, etc. It was not until my brother had one-on-one contact with our mother that he finally got it. By this time I’d gone no contact and moved out of state. Away from my mother and the people who just couldn’t see the truth of the situation, I got better. Now, when I speak of my experience and people begin to minimize it, I ask, “Did you and your mother get along?” When they reply, “Yes,” I know to stop talking. They will never understand. I appreciate your telling your story. It helps so much to hear someone who “gets” it. Thank you!
Oh my gosh, I could have written this!