(Trigger warning: domestic violence; abuse; suicide.)
One of my earliest memories of my Mother was seeing her climb our fence to get inside. She came home from a seminar with her professional association. Our town is more than an hour away from the provincial center, where the seminar was held. Those times, the bus trip going home was just once every hour. That night, Mother arrived at about past nine in the evening.
Family and loved ones make sure you get home safe. Not this man. He did not only refuse to fetch Mother, he also locked her out. A punishment for attending a seminar.
That night, I tried to go out of the house and open the gate for Mother, but that man stopped me before I could reach the door. He watched as Mother climbed the fence, made of sharp cyclon wire and framed by steel and concrete.
Mother could have easily slept over at my grandparents’ house but chose not to. She did not know yet that she was already a few weeks pregnant with her youngest child. When I remember that night, I think of why she climbed in the first place. She needed to make sure her daughter was safe inside the house.
Was it insecurity that drove this man to put us through this? What I know is that this wasn’t the last traumatic experience we went through. For over three decades, Mother experienced a range of physical, psychological, and economic abuses. These went on even while she was battling terminal illnesses. Some of these abuses I only found out about when it was already too late. None of which this man ever showed remorse for inflicting.
Confronted for infidelity, this man yelled at Mother: “I can have any number of wives that I want!” I was in high school at the time. First thing that came to mind was, man, you don’t even have the emotional and financial capacity to support one family. I’d say this period was the most exhausting time in my life. Except this man never stopped beating his own record for trauma inflicted upon Mother and me.
He constantly tried to invalidate my Mother’s hard work and abilities. I could imagine her pain, especially when I was already a woman trying to carve my own career. As I filled out my college forms, this man insisted I declare that my mother was jobless, just so I could get higher subsidy. I didn’t obey, of course. Mother worked hard in her own clinic and even earned more than this man did. Also, this misrepresentation he was asking me to commit could’ve jeopardized my own future.
This attempt at invalidation continued throughout the rest of Mother’s life and even after her death. Until now, this man claims all credit to himself and continues to disrespect my Mother.
It seemed to give him ego boost every time he belittles my achievements. He would always say something mean instead of letting me celebrate a success. I grew up feeling that whatever I become, I will never be enough. Several times when I was younger, too burned out, I tried to end my own life. Most of these attempts, no one in the family knew about. That one time when Mother asked this man for help because of my suicide attempt, the only thing he ever said to me was: “Napagastos ako dahil sa ginawa mo.“
At one point, I decided to stop telling him about any achievement, just to avoid hearing his toxic comments. Win a contest: “Eh ‘di feeling mo mas magaling ka na sa’kin?” or “Matatalo mo kaya ako?” Pass the bar exams: “Nakakahiya ka naman, hindi top score.” Start a company using hard-earned savings while working and finishing graduate studies in business: “Bakit ka ba nakikialam sa ganyan?”
Even strangers tell me my Mother was one of the kindest people they’ve known. If only they knew what she endured: maybe as a coping mechanism, maybe for her children’s safety. Maybe because her generation was conditioned to handle things that way. The pain inflicted upon my Mother tortured her for so long, it’s not quite a stretch to say it contributed to the deterioration of her health. I was somehow relieved she asked to spend her last few weeks surrounded by people who truly cared for her, away somehow from the abuser. My mother’s kindness, it was like a flower that bloomed from the cracks of a wall. You could only wonder how it survived, but it was there.
***
“Don’t hang your dirty laundry in public.” I decided to write about the abuse and will continue to speak about it, because silence only benefits the abuser. The abuser is usually good at weaving a good public image. I understand Mother might have felt trapped or might have feared for our safety, and kept her silence for decades. A few times I encouraged her to just leave. She might have been aware how people put the blame on victims, instead of demanding accountability from the abuser. This is laundry that I would have taken to court had there been an opportunity.
“Past is past.” We can’t find patterns of abuse without looking into past actions. How can these abusive actions be addressed if we’re not even willing to look at it with honesty and awareness? Past-is-past is a statement in favor of the abuser and his ilks who commit horrible things over and over again, without any regard for the souls they break. Past-is-past is for the comfort of family members who tolerate and encourage the abusive behavior, as if it is something men are entitled to. I quite know how this works, if you ask for accountability for wrongdoings, masama ang ugali mo. Past-is-past is the excuse of people who don’t understand: trauma is trauma.
“These experiences made you strong.” No, these horrible things did not make me strong. Don’t speak as if we should thank the abuser. Memories of these horrible experiences tortured my Mother until her last days. This trauma broke me. I might need to deal with the effects for the rest of my life. Right now, as in the past, I’m undergoing counseling and getting the help I need.
All the nightmares, the negative emotions, the emptiness, the emotional stress that affected my health — oftentimes I wish I didn’t have to deal with these. All the wasted time and resources. It’s not even about being able to achieve more. All the wasted time is time I could’ve spent just being happy.
What made me strong is the love of family and friends. Who believed in me and supported me along the way. People who remind me that there are good things I deserve just because I’m alive. That I can also put something good out in the world, with faith, and despite all the pain. That I too can make flowers bloom out of the broken pieces.
(If you or any person close to you suffer from abuse or trauma, please consider seeking help from mental health professionals. Please also consult a lawyer on the legal remedies available.)
Motion on a Monday 