My mother the manipulator (covert incest triggers)
Higher Place
New Registrant
[font:Arial]My own story pales in comparison to almost all that I have read on this site. I know that it's not a contest, as a friend of mine put it, but I'll share my experience anyway. Actually, the details of it have turned out to be more appropriate for another forum, called covertincest.org, which I first heard about via Male Survivor. I realized in my reading that what happened to me best fit the descriptions provided on covertincest.org -- i.e., that I was a victim of covert, or emotional, incest: I was sexually abused in a mostly emotional way by my mother, which had many of the same dire impacts on me that outright physical sexual abuse would have had.
Following is an abbreviated account of my story that I'll be sharing on covertincest.org:
Some of my earliest recollections of sexual abuse were at the hands of my grandfather, who I can recall "rassling" with my younger brother and me when I was about 4 years old. We would have been in our pajamas. He loved to play with us on the floor of his living room. What I remember is him saying at one point, "Got your peter!" -- and he indeed had briefly grabbed hold of my penis. I also do not recall this as being unpleasant in any way, but as being more like tickling.
I also have vague but definite recollections of my mother rubbing my genitals at various times at about this same age. This may have occurred as I lay in my bed asleep or nearly asleep, or while I was taking a bath, or before or after baths, but I know it happened. She also made frequent remarks about me and my brother being naked; these remarks extended over many years and I know were not always of ordinary playful or appropriate tone. Taken together as a gestalt, I now realize that all of this amounts to sexual abuse, and contribution to feelings of inappropriate sexualization on my part in my earliest years. I remember being much overly fascinated with my own genitalia as early as age 6 or 8.
My mother also exposed herself to me twice -- her genitals once, when I was 8, and her breast once, when I was about 14. Both times, it was completely inappropriate, and both times, it completely surprised and shocked me. I also found out recently that when I was 11, my mother molested a neighbor boy, giving him a hand job when he was 7. He told me this when I re-established contact with him and we were comparing notes about her. I was shocked but not entirely surprised, as the account meshes with my hazy memories of her early fondlings of me.
By far the most prevalent abuse of me by my mother was the covert incest -- the enormous amount of emotional and physical abuse she heaped on me. Most all of it occurred during my pre-adolescent and adolescent years, but I can remember feeling uncomfortable being snuggled by her as early as when I was 7 or 8. I don't recall the reasons for that specifically, but I speculate that she was probably already being inappropriately close to me in ways that she shouldn't have.
My mom was a very domineering person, with an overpowering, smothering type of personality. She "wore the pants" in the family, and wore her emotions on her sleeve. She had a quick temper, and if something upset her, she was quick to show her anger by yelling, slamming things around, or hitting people, either with her hands or with objects. This propensity got worse as we kids grew older. (I am the eldest of three siblings; my brother is next, at 2.5 years younger; my sister, the youngest, is 5 years younger than I.) By the time I was 10 or so, Mom's temper tantrums had become a regular thing, touched off commonly by my brother's bedwetting, a problem that I now can't help but wonder if it might have been set off by something Mom did.
Our mother had an idealized "Ozzie and Harriet" vision of how a family should be, unfortunately, and of course our family fell short of it. Any shortcoming was apt to set off a tirade punctuated by "damn kids" and being slapped around and/or outright beaten. As I said, this got worse as we got older, but had become more or less regular by the time I was 10 or 12.
It was my prepubescent years when my siblings and I began acting out sexually, no doubt in response to the maltreatment we were receiving. We "played doctor" with the neighbor kids, who also were ages 8 to 11, and all of us delighted in running around the house naked when our parents weren't home. We weren't too overtly sexual with one another, but we definitely engaged in a good deal more sexual play than would be considered normal for kids who were that old. I remember that I, for one, got a definite sexual thrill out of all of it. We didn't stop it altogether until I was 13 or so, as I recall.
One thing that I like to laugh about now, but which wasn't funny then, was how she used to yell, "Am I going to have to take you to a PSYCHIATRIST?" at one or the other of us kids, for some indiscretion or another -- as if having to go to a psychiatrist were the worst possible fate that could befall us. And it's ironic, of course, on two fronts: First, a psychiatrist actually would have been quite beneficial for the family, at any point during all those horrible years; and second, it was our mother, not us kids, who was the one who most needed a psychiatrist. (Alas, my parents are from a generation that "doesn't believe in" psychiatry or psychiatrists -- i.e., they view the need for that specialty as something for deep shame and secrecy, and so they never would have seriously considered therapy for anyone in our family, least of all for themselves.)
Looking back through a covert-incest lens, it was right around my pre-adolescence that my mother started having the hots for me, in her own twisted way. In more pronounced ways than before, it was then that she really started trying to hold me close to her, trying to persuade me to snuggle with her, cajole me into telling her that I loved her, and even going so far as blowing in my ears and sticking her tongue in my ears, among other highly inappropriate behaviors. These sorts of things not only did not abate through my teenage years, they got worse. She would constantly paw at me, pull at me and practically beg me for hugs, and say things like, "Zip up your pants or something might fall out." (That one was a favorite; she would say it often, even when my pants were zipped up.)
I also have really icky memories of my mom doing all sorts of heavy cuddling with my brother when he was way too old for it (in his early teens) -- doing things like blowing in his ears, sticking her tongue in his ears, being inappropriately flirtatious with him, etc. He actually would put up with it, which is why I find the memories icky. I would push her away when she did the same with me, often with all the strength I had. Again, she would react by acting deeply hurt that I had rejected her advances, which by her twisted reasoning were perfectly legitimate.
She delighted in the onset of puberty in my life, teasing me about having to take showers in phys ed at school, as well as wanting to check and see if I had any armpit hair yet. She would needle me about whether I had any crushes on any girls, and make sexual innuendoes whenever she could throughout my junior high and high school years. Many of these were far and away beyond appropriate banter for an ordinary mother, and I was repeatedly embarrassed in front of my friends. Some of her jokes were just plain awkward and clumsy in addition to unfunny, such as telling me to "screw it in" when instructing me how to park the car in the driveway. This type of behavior was pervasive and virtually daily. There usually wasn't any single instance of sexual abuse per se, but all these many incidents and examples added up to a very ugly gestalt of a disturbed and abusive person. It would not be until I was in my 50s that I fully realized the big picture of all these incidents as sexual abuse.
My adolescence was a chaotic hell, with my mother bullying and chastising me on the one hand ("You'll never amount to anything!" was one of her favorite refrains) and sexually belittling me on the other -- and other bullies giving me grief at school at the same time. I had approximately two real friends, and did zero dating, since I was (surprise!) petrified of girls or relationships. I did my best to bury myself in my schoolwork and, later, a part-time job, and managed to convince everyone I was from a regular family.
As if my growing out of childhood were not hard enough on my mother's twisted psyche, I think the ultimate insult to her was when I moved hundreds of miles away to college -- and then moved away altogether. As another guy who had similar issues with his mother put it, it was "as if I were cheating on her." She seemed to be practically distraught over the idea that she wasn't going to be seeing me very much anymore, and complained often, and loudly, that I didn't write or call often enough. (I do realize that most mothers are like this to a certain extent, but mine was quite voluble about it.) She took it personally. It was literally years, I think, before she was able to calm down over having "lost" me to the outside world. (I just have to wonder what, exactly, she expected, other than perhaps for me to have stayed in my hometown ... which I was not about to do if I could possibly help it ... )
The long-term damage from all this has been real and lasting. I am better off now in most ways, but I have been deeply and permanently scarred. I have always had difficulty forming and keeping adult relationships, especially romantic relationships with women. My libido is low (and at times non-existent), and I don't respond well to touch, criticism, manipulativeness, loud people, or bullies. And, as I've said, I've been in and out of therapy for much of my adult life -- time and money I would love to have not spent, but which ultimately was well worth in sorting out these issues. (I first sought therapy when I was 25, which was one of the best and most helpful things I ever did for myself.)
Fortunately, I can count my blessings -- I recognize that I have things far, far better than many other people who are survivors of covert incest and sexual abuse. And I've forgiven my mother, though she's been gone for almost 20 years now. She was not only an imperfect human but undoubtedly mentally unstable, and if she'd only gotten the help she needed, things would have been so much better for our whole family. This only goes to underscore how crucial it is for those who need counseling to get that help if they possibly can -- it can truly save lifetimes worth of grief and pain.
Thanks to anyone who actually read all the way through this; I know it was long. But it feels good to get it out there! :crazy:
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Following is an abbreviated account of my story that I'll be sharing on covertincest.org:
Some of my earliest recollections of sexual abuse were at the hands of my grandfather, who I can recall "rassling" with my younger brother and me when I was about 4 years old. We would have been in our pajamas. He loved to play with us on the floor of his living room. What I remember is him saying at one point, "Got your peter!" -- and he indeed had briefly grabbed hold of my penis. I also do not recall this as being unpleasant in any way, but as being more like tickling.
I also have vague but definite recollections of my mother rubbing my genitals at various times at about this same age. This may have occurred as I lay in my bed asleep or nearly asleep, or while I was taking a bath, or before or after baths, but I know it happened. She also made frequent remarks about me and my brother being naked; these remarks extended over many years and I know were not always of ordinary playful or appropriate tone. Taken together as a gestalt, I now realize that all of this amounts to sexual abuse, and contribution to feelings of inappropriate sexualization on my part in my earliest years. I remember being much overly fascinated with my own genitalia as early as age 6 or 8.
My mother also exposed herself to me twice -- her genitals once, when I was 8, and her breast once, when I was about 14. Both times, it was completely inappropriate, and both times, it completely surprised and shocked me. I also found out recently that when I was 11, my mother molested a neighbor boy, giving him a hand job when he was 7. He told me this when I re-established contact with him and we were comparing notes about her. I was shocked but not entirely surprised, as the account meshes with my hazy memories of her early fondlings of me.
By far the most prevalent abuse of me by my mother was the covert incest -- the enormous amount of emotional and physical abuse she heaped on me. Most all of it occurred during my pre-adolescent and adolescent years, but I can remember feeling uncomfortable being snuggled by her as early as when I was 7 or 8. I don't recall the reasons for that specifically, but I speculate that she was probably already being inappropriately close to me in ways that she shouldn't have.
My mom was a very domineering person, with an overpowering, smothering type of personality. She "wore the pants" in the family, and wore her emotions on her sleeve. She had a quick temper, and if something upset her, she was quick to show her anger by yelling, slamming things around, or hitting people, either with her hands or with objects. This propensity got worse as we kids grew older. (I am the eldest of three siblings; my brother is next, at 2.5 years younger; my sister, the youngest, is 5 years younger than I.) By the time I was 10 or so, Mom's temper tantrums had become a regular thing, touched off commonly by my brother's bedwetting, a problem that I now can't help but wonder if it might have been set off by something Mom did.
Our mother had an idealized "Ozzie and Harriet" vision of how a family should be, unfortunately, and of course our family fell short of it. Any shortcoming was apt to set off a tirade punctuated by "damn kids" and being slapped around and/or outright beaten. As I said, this got worse as we got older, but had become more or less regular by the time I was 10 or 12.
It was my prepubescent years when my siblings and I began acting out sexually, no doubt in response to the maltreatment we were receiving. We "played doctor" with the neighbor kids, who also were ages 8 to 11, and all of us delighted in running around the house naked when our parents weren't home. We weren't too overtly sexual with one another, but we definitely engaged in a good deal more sexual play than would be considered normal for kids who were that old. I remember that I, for one, got a definite sexual thrill out of all of it. We didn't stop it altogether until I was 13 or so, as I recall.
One thing that I like to laugh about now, but which wasn't funny then, was how she used to yell, "Am I going to have to take you to a PSYCHIATRIST?" at one or the other of us kids, for some indiscretion or another -- as if having to go to a psychiatrist were the worst possible fate that could befall us. And it's ironic, of course, on two fronts: First, a psychiatrist actually would have been quite beneficial for the family, at any point during all those horrible years; and second, it was our mother, not us kids, who was the one who most needed a psychiatrist. (Alas, my parents are from a generation that "doesn't believe in" psychiatry or psychiatrists -- i.e., they view the need for that specialty as something for deep shame and secrecy, and so they never would have seriously considered therapy for anyone in our family, least of all for themselves.)
Looking back through a covert-incest lens, it was right around my pre-adolescence that my mother started having the hots for me, in her own twisted way. In more pronounced ways than before, it was then that she really started trying to hold me close to her, trying to persuade me to snuggle with her, cajole me into telling her that I loved her, and even going so far as blowing in my ears and sticking her tongue in my ears, among other highly inappropriate behaviors. These sorts of things not only did not abate through my teenage years, they got worse. She would constantly paw at me, pull at me and practically beg me for hugs, and say things like, "Zip up your pants or something might fall out." (That one was a favorite; she would say it often, even when my pants were zipped up.)
I also have really icky memories of my mom doing all sorts of heavy cuddling with my brother when he was way too old for it (in his early teens) -- doing things like blowing in his ears, sticking her tongue in his ears, being inappropriately flirtatious with him, etc. He actually would put up with it, which is why I find the memories icky. I would push her away when she did the same with me, often with all the strength I had. Again, she would react by acting deeply hurt that I had rejected her advances, which by her twisted reasoning were perfectly legitimate.
She delighted in the onset of puberty in my life, teasing me about having to take showers in phys ed at school, as well as wanting to check and see if I had any armpit hair yet. She would needle me about whether I had any crushes on any girls, and make sexual innuendoes whenever she could throughout my junior high and high school years. Many of these were far and away beyond appropriate banter for an ordinary mother, and I was repeatedly embarrassed in front of my friends. Some of her jokes were just plain awkward and clumsy in addition to unfunny, such as telling me to "screw it in" when instructing me how to park the car in the driveway. This type of behavior was pervasive and virtually daily. There usually wasn't any single instance of sexual abuse per se, but all these many incidents and examples added up to a very ugly gestalt of a disturbed and abusive person. It would not be until I was in my 50s that I fully realized the big picture of all these incidents as sexual abuse.
My adolescence was a chaotic hell, with my mother bullying and chastising me on the one hand ("You'll never amount to anything!" was one of her favorite refrains) and sexually belittling me on the other -- and other bullies giving me grief at school at the same time. I had approximately two real friends, and did zero dating, since I was (surprise!) petrified of girls or relationships. I did my best to bury myself in my schoolwork and, later, a part-time job, and managed to convince everyone I was from a regular family.
As if my growing out of childhood were not hard enough on my mother's twisted psyche, I think the ultimate insult to her was when I moved hundreds of miles away to college -- and then moved away altogether. As another guy who had similar issues with his mother put it, it was "as if I were cheating on her." She seemed to be practically distraught over the idea that she wasn't going to be seeing me very much anymore, and complained often, and loudly, that I didn't write or call often enough. (I do realize that most mothers are like this to a certain extent, but mine was quite voluble about it.) She took it personally. It was literally years, I think, before she was able to calm down over having "lost" me to the outside world. (I just have to wonder what, exactly, she expected, other than perhaps for me to have stayed in my hometown ... which I was not about to do if I could possibly help it ... )
The long-term damage from all this has been real and lasting. I am better off now in most ways, but I have been deeply and permanently scarred. I have always had difficulty forming and keeping adult relationships, especially romantic relationships with women. My libido is low (and at times non-existent), and I don't respond well to touch, criticism, manipulativeness, loud people, or bullies. And, as I've said, I've been in and out of therapy for much of my adult life -- time and money I would love to have not spent, but which ultimately was well worth in sorting out these issues. (I first sought therapy when I was 25, which was one of the best and most helpful things I ever did for myself.)
Fortunately, I can count my blessings -- I recognize that I have things far, far better than many other people who are survivors of covert incest and sexual abuse. And I've forgiven my mother, though she's been gone for almost 20 years now. She was not only an imperfect human but undoubtedly mentally unstable, and if she'd only gotten the help she needed, things would have been so much better for our whole family. This only goes to underscore how crucial it is for those who need counseling to get that help if they possibly can -- it can truly save lifetimes worth of grief and pain.
Thanks to anyone who actually read all the way through this; I know it was long. But it feels good to get it out there! :crazy:
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