I remember the first time I knew the "relationship" I had with my mother was a serious problem. I was seven years old and my mother had taken a 2x4 and had come after me. Once the beating was over, I ran out of the house screaming and at that point child services was called.

Over the course of several years child services visited my house four more times and each time my mother would tell me that if I said anything, she would kill me. She continued on with I would end up in some lousy forester care program and the likelihood of me being beaten even more severely and ending up raped was great. Obviously, this scared me to death so I kept quiet. Besides, who was going to defend my brother, who is five years younger than me, if I left?

My father (he isn't my real father but adopted me when my parents married - I was five years old) wasn't any help. His extreme passive nature and probably fear of my mother (she attacked him a few times as well) kept any protection from him at bay. I resented him for many, many years because of this. Actually, at some point, I think my hate for him was greater than that of my hate for my mother. Needless to say the physical, emotional and verbal abuse continued until about 1983 when we moved to Florida.

Once we were relocated, the physical abuse stopped but the verbal and emotional continued. When my mother found out my father had been cheating for several years unbeknown to her, she proceeded to tell me that the person who was listed on my birth certificate wasn't my actual father; my actual father wanted nothing to do with us and stated he would kill both of us if we ever came around. Her way of dealing with her pain was to actually inflict it upon others.

Keep in mind that even though all this abuse was occurring, I never once wanted for anything. Regardless of the financial struggles my family went through, I always had school clothes, my four prom dresses, medical was taken care of and in that sense I am grateful.

My junior year of high school my mother was diagnosed bipolar; she wouldn't accept that she had a problem and refused to go on medication. The year after I graduated she hit me one last time. At that moment I fought back and she called the police and had me removed from the house. The irony is that I was never a "problem" child. I received good grades, I had goals (that she constantly squashed - or at least the ones she could) and I wanted a future; she wanted to keep me under her control and when she had seen that she lost control over me, she lashed out.

Fast forward, I moved out when I was 19 and saw her one last time when I was 23. From the time I was 23 until about two years ago (I am now 38), I hadn't spoken to her. A terminal illness brought us back together and the one thing I always wanted from her was an apology. She gave that to me. She acknowledged all that she had done wrong and although she could not change the past, she wanted to change the future.

That apology set me free. She has since passed on and I have since let go of the hate that had festered inside of me for the better part of two plus decades. Our relationship would be medically classified as dysfunctional - it was so far beyond that in my opinion - but I have now realized that through all the bad, she has given me strength. Strength to accept myself for who I am and to go on with life knowing that I will never make the same mistakes she made.

Learn more about this author, Campbell Nallick.
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