I’ll always put my child first because my parents didn’t

When most people look back at their childhood they probably feel nostalgic for all the good times. 

They’ll remember family holidays by the coast, playing in the sea and building sandcastles. They’ll think of warm, cosy Christmases and family meals filled with laughter. 

Memories that make them feel calm, content, and grateful for their family. 

Sadly, this is not how I view my past. 

When I think of my young life, all I remember is the dysfunction and neverending feelings of sadness. 

That’s why, even though my parents live just a five-minute drive from me, I only see them once every two years. 

I grew up in a family of four: there was my mum, dad, me and my younger brother. By all appearances, we were just a normal family. Behind closed doors however, we were anything but.

My father was an angry and controlling man. 

He would not allow my mum to have friends or go out of the house without him – behaviours that I now recognise as coercive and abusive – and I remember him being very particular about how clean the house was, a job he assigned solely to my mother.

As for me and my siblings, life was difficult. Personally, I was scared of my father and regularly felt like I had to walk on eggshells around him as I never knew what mood he would be in. 

One time, when I was about 11, my father hit me so hard I flew against the wall. I still can’t remember what I had done wrong. 

Things never improved as I got older either, if anything they became more challenging.  

One time, when I was about 11, my father hit me so hard I flew against the wall

By 14 I had taken on more of my mother’s role as she was always working and my sister had made a point of not being around as much. As a result, I became more responsible for looking after my brother and was expected to come home straight after school to clean and cook food for my father.  

This added pressure and stress led me to be sad, lonely and depressed. So much so that I tried to kill myself. 

I openly admit that my suicide attempt was a call for help and attention. But a couple of hours later I panicked and told my parents what I had done and was rushed to the hospital. 

Even this wasn’t enough to change things. I was never offered counselling and my parents never asked what had led me to do it. In fact, we never discussed it again.

If we didn’t talk about it, then it never happened. 

Naturally, after this, I found myself pulling away from them and retreating within myself more and more. Still they couldn’t see how miserable I was.

Even when my mum told me about how her relationship with her mother was strained, she still couldn’t see the irony. 

‘My relationship with my children will never be like that,’ she said.  

Meanwhile, I was beginning to go out at weekends to drown my sorrows in alcohol.

Then, at 16, I was raped by a man that was double my age.

You’d think, after such a traumatic event, that I’d want to tell my parents. That they’d be the ones to help me through it, who would hear what had happened, believe me wholeheartedly, embrace me and say: ‘It’ll all be OK.’. 

But I knew better than that by now. 

Instead, I never told a soul and isolated myself further.

For over two decades I kept this secret bottled up. The only person I have ever disclosed it to was my now husband – but even then it took 15 years to do so.  

As time has gone on, I’ve only questioned my parents’ disinterest in me more. 

Especially after I became a parent myself. 

When I look at my daughter, I feel nothing but pure love for her. 

I would protect her to the end, and I often put her needs over mine and even my husband’s. Personally, I cannot fathom how any parent could have children and not put their needs first.  

Nor do I understand how anyone could treat a child with anything aside from love, protection and support. And why was it that my parents couldn’t give me these basic things? 

My daughter is an innocent, beautiful and kind girl who deserves all the love I can give; the thought of her going through any of the atrocious things I did as a child fills me with fear and horror.  

The only explanation I have for my parents’ behaviour, is that they simply didn’t have enough space in either of their lives for their children. And that hurts. 

It would be nice to think we could work through our past and grow together, but this has not been the case.

At most, we only see them once every couple of years and they’ve only ever given their granddaughter one birthday and Christmas present in her whole life.

I do often have moments where I feel sad and angry at them, I wonder if they ever really loved me, and yet, I’ve never felt able to confront them directly about all that has happened. Though, I suspect that if I ever do, they wouldn’t care.

They’re now older, so I know time is running out for me to have my say, but I’m not brave enough to have that conversation yet. 

For right now, I want to focus on my real family. 

My younger self would not believe it is possible to have a loving family, but I have finally found that with my husband and daughter. I’m grateful for them every day, and I plan to give my daughter all the love I never had.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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