#mom trauma

[triaelf9]

Just a lil post about Taash and how I'm feeling about how ppl are reacting to them as someone who relates to them very strongly not only on the gender journey front, but also on the mom-issues front.

Cut for length b/c of course this won't actually be a "little" post lol

So I hear a lot of "Taash is too young" "Taash acts like a child" "Taash is too brash" "Taash has wildly binary views of the world" "Taash is thinks their reality is the world's reality" etc etc etc

And I'm here to say that as someone who realized that non-binary was a thing later in life, grew up trying to be them, but society was not only unwelcoming to that, but openly hostile at points, with a mom who had totally different interests, who very much wanted to protect them from the outside world to a point where it left them unprepared to deal with nuances of the world, etc, a mom who thought they were "just doing their best" but was never meant to be a mom, and never wanted to be a mom, didn't have the tools for mom-hood, who wanted to protect their child, but had no real idea how, and how every comment turned into the mom trying to steer her kid the right way, but just came out as a dig or a "you're not good enough" remark, AND looking after your mom in a world that is wholly unsuited to her, that she can't really adapt to and fit into, and kinda becoming her mom to a point so that your life completely revolves around her until you leave home?

Yeah. I get Taash. It's actually kinda freaky how, fantasy elements aside, I get Taash on a frightening level. (aside from the dragon stuff, we're both the same with that HELL YEAH DRAGONS)

Taash doesn't read young to me because I've always read young because of how I was raised. I didn't get the chance to figure myself out until I left home. I also had the benefit of being able to leave for college at a younger age, and got a chance to experience things away from my mom earlier. But seeing things in such a binary way, that's how it is when you're protected like that.

You don't want to admit how similar you are to how your mom sees the world, b/c she sees it in one way, and as you go through life, you get to learn differently. You come out of this situation INCREDIBLY judgmental at first. Why aren't THESE things conforming to MY reality. You come across as brash and childish. And when you get treated as such, it's triggering b/c that's how your mom treats you.

You hate how you look, you think you look like a freak b/c your mom is constantly commenting on your appearance. She does it out of love (she wants you to be healthy & not mocked by your peers) but she doesn't consider that constantly telling you not to look a certain way does damage. My self confidence only recovered in my thirties. I'm 4 days from my 38th birthday, and it took getting pregnant to finally be like "you know what, I don't hate myself & my body" which is MASSIVE for me.

So where do we get our self confidence? In things we enjoy, in hyperfocuses that we're good at. For me that's comics, naginata, fantasy & DA lore lol XD For Taash it's dragons, fighting, and working out. And when we falter there, it's devastating b/c it's the only way we can feel good about ourselves b/c our SELVES are disconnected and tucked away b/c they make us feel bad.

So I totally get how Taash reads to people. The autism aspects are more like my wife (who is autistic & has issues with social cues, while I'm HYPER AWARE of social stuff which fuels my anxiety b/c of the type of person my mom was and how I had to look after her), but I get it.

But it makes me sad when I hear people dunk on Taash as "bad writing" and "unrealistic" and "annoying" and it's like...is that how you see people like that? Is that how you see me and people like my wife? I feel like people aren't willing to look deeper so often (an issue with all the companions tbh & some day I'll have to get into my Davrin feels b/c BOY do I have them. Neve too, WHOOF) but I feel like if you do that in a game, I hope you don't do that irl.

anyway TLDR this is a Taash defense post b/c while they have a lot of issues, stuff they need to work out & have wrong opinions on stuff, they're growing, they're learning & they have to do it later than most. They're an incredibly complicated character with tons of nuance, and I can't wait to get deeper into their story and banter with companions in round 2 of my playthroughs, and then again in round 3

Sorry this is too long, and I'm sure not all of this was intended when they were written, but this is how it all clicked with me as someone who has lived a large portion of that stuff. Like, again, I'm nearly fucking FOURTY and I don't feel like I should be there yet b/c I started so far back. It ALSO doesn't help that ADHD wild child I was, I was held back in preschool b/c neurodivergence also makes a kid read younger, AND the choice to have me be the youngest in the class would have been a very bad one. So I'm older than most of my peers BUT I've always read younger, felt younger, and have had a sore spot when it comes to all that.

Thank you for coming to my Taash Talk, I'll be here all week to think about more stuff, including how their body makes them read as lady, and they're not sure how to feel about that, but they don't want to CHANGE it, but is it right?

ANYWHO this is why Taash is a fascinating character & deserves better than to be regulated to "annoying kid"

[stargazeingfool]

Mommy issues so bad I hate when my mom just looks/ talks to me in general eugh

[lionsandladybugs5]

Ughhh I’ve been crying all morning about arcane but the part I can’t let go or get out is how good a mother powder/jinx is. She has the standard child trauma and personal limitations that create a very loving and safe home. Her fatal flaw is family and it always will be, as shown over and over with Vander and Vi. She has no trouble expanding herself when presented with someone in more need than herself, or shutting everyone out to maintain a semblance of safety. But with Isha, she was forced outside of her own trauma in an attempt to limit the amount Isha would experience. In another life, in another time line, she would be the best mother.

[bottled-cherry-wine]

I used to miss my mother everyday. I often thought about messaging or calling her, no matter if we would talk about the past or not. I would've let her off the hook again just to have a mom in my life. Some nights I would miss her so much I cried until I threw up.

Once the grieving period was over, the feeling that replaced it wasn't calm or content. All I have left of her is rage. So much anger I don't know where to put it. Part of me still wants to call her, but not out of sadness or hope. I want to yell at her until my throat hurts and I'm gasping for air. I want her to feel at least a fraction of the pain she put me through.

[words-i-think]

Don’t look at me,

Unless you are going to love me.

Don’t say my name so sweetly,

Unless you are going to hold me.

Don’t feed me poison,

Unless you are going to kill me.

Please leave me to return to dust.

I fear to be in your gaze.

[fox-stuck]

You ever get the full abusive parent cycle multiple times in one phone call and know you’ll feel wrung out for the next several days/weeks.

I don’t even know what to say beyond, girl wtf is wrong with you.

[underworld-skies]

Thanks to my already crushing overwhelming episode where I'm angry and want to break everything constantly. I want to die already because I can't stop playing all things said last week. But now I also have to sit with the realization my mother never liked me and she has only seen me as a burden...she's the only parent I had left that I believed loved me...I'm living with her I've been living with her on and off since I was 13 because growing up she made me feel loved and wanted. Everytime I leave she acts like it's the end of the world. But did she just want me to use against the family? Did she just want me around to use me to help her with bills? Why am I never enough for her? Why can't she love me? I just ..... fuck

I'm tired of this

[cherryredmistakes]

How I look complaining about how awful the trauma responses I have every single fucking day and how they make me feel suicidal and having breakdowns at least once a week because of my trauma to the people that have me said trauma :

[furthestexit]

i wish my mom gave me more attention and loved me more. i cant say i’m not grateful for her working so hard just to keep me alive but i don’t think it’s selfish for her to just treat me like she loves me instead of saying feeding me and keeping me was alive. it makes me think, maybe i’m not loveable enough for her to tell me more reasons for why she loves me. maybe that’s why she doesn’t bother spending time with me. maybe that’s why she doesn’t like me. i wish i was immature and selfish enough to make a big mess of myself and scream “look at me. look at how shitty i am. this is your son. your daughter. your child. this is me.” i wish i was brave enough to yell at her and cry at her hoping she’d hold me and tell me it’s ok. i wish i was able to talk to her instead of sitting at the dinner table and hoping she asks if i’m hungry. if im having trouble. if i’ve been okay recently. i want her to pay attention and notice me. i want to scream “look at how messed up i am. i cant even eat properly because of you. i cant do basic life tasks. i cant keep myself alive. i cant be independent. it’s all your fault. it’s all your fault i’m not good enough.” and have her listen and tell me she’s sorry. i want to be able to tell her the reason i haven’t been eating is because of her and that she could’ve prevented it. i hate it when she says things that are burned into my memory or acts like i should know how to do something and get mad at me when i don’t even though she’s never taught me ever. i don’t know how i’m supposed to learn how to be independent from youtube tutorials alone. i wish i was better. i wish i was good enough. good enough for you to tell me that you love me and mean it.

i love you mum, and i can never be more grateful for the sacrifices you have made for me. i remember seeing you cry as a kid, i rememebr you talking about your struggles, you doing your best to keep me happy. you were an amazing mum and you did your best but it wasn’t enough for me and i wish it was. i wish i was normal. i wish i could do this shit. i wish i could stop feeling sad about you because you’re my mum and you’ve done so much for me. i can feel your phantom fingers on my body and i can hear your voice telling me i’m fat and ugly and need to lose weight. i can remember you telling me that i’m ugly and i need tk grow out my hair and stop trying to look like a boy. i can remember you looking at me before we went out and your eyes on my body with a disappointed look. like you wish you did better. like you wish you had a better child. someone more feminine, more pretty, more skinny. anyone but me. i want to fuck things up. i want to fuck myself up and make you pay attention. i wanna get so skinny you finally admit i’m good enough, bones and all. i want you to tell me you’re worried abs you want to help. i want so much from you that you’ll never provide me.

i wish i could say i hated you. i wish i could say i can forget it all and be your perfect daughter again that you love with all your heart. i wish. i remember the bad parts and that shoudlve been enough because the way it still stings years later, much after 9 years old, is telling enough. but i also remember you sitting next to me in bed when i was scared to sleep. i remember you holding me during a breakdown. i remember you making me my favourite lunches and knowing exactly what i like. i remember you taking care of me. you’re such a hardworking mother. i cant deny that. but you also hurt me when i was small, and that will never change. no matter how much time passes, i still feel that sting when i look at you.

[nastyknuckles]

I hate the way I look. I hate that they remind me I look like you. I wish I could be given an entire new face that doesn't have a trace of you. I hate that I can't look at myself or avoid taking my picture because all I see is you and hear all the terrible things you have said to me my entire life. You brought me into this world. I didn't ask for any of this. What did I do to deserve to be hated by the one who made me... thank you for showing me how to hate myself

[int0themist]

do you ever mourn things that havent happened yet?

I'm not in a relationship - i haven't been in years, theres no visible wedding in my future. but i saw a video earlier, a skit of a woman acting like her mother when she went wedding dress shopping with her. and something just... hit me. I'll never get that experience, even if the skit was a lot of the mother criticizing her daughter.

My entire life, my mom has openly expressed her hatred of weddings, and her hatred of clothes shopping. I, on the other hand, have always loved both of these things. Weddings are an exciting concept to me, there was a time when i wanted to be a wedding planner. ive dreamed about my own wedding, my dress, all of it

But because of this, she'll never want to have anything to do with this process. I'll never get to have my mother watch me try on giant pretty dresses for hours, because she'll hate it. every aspect of it. and im accepting that, ive been accepting that for years, but it hurts. knowing she won't want to be much part of a day that will mean so much to me.

[words-i-think]

I am not the prodigal son

Nor the favored son

Nor a son

Nor a daughter

I am deemed the enemy by my blood

And I am deemed salvageable by God’s word

But I am loved by the Devil and his sinners

[perfectlysunny02]

hi lovely! you don’t have to get all your wips done. it’s okay to take a break.

thank you 🥺 unfortunately my mom was emotionally immature so i always assume i'm not doing enough😭

[fox-stuck]

Can’t teach an old dog new tricks but it’s about your 60 year old mothers inability to even try and be better

[foryourxyz]

The Daughter

Something that I hate is being called lazy. And that I think stems from shame as well. From the conviction that I AM those things my ex called me: a moocher, a lazy bum, unmotivated. Or, even more simply put by my mother: just plain lazy.

“When are you going to wash that?” My mom is on the couch, and I’m at the kitchen table in front of my laptop, working.

I'm overwhelmed. Every time I get interrupted I feel rage course through my veins. I reign in my temper. Try not to snap at my child. Or my brother. Or my mother.

“Are you going to leave it forever? It doesn't take long”

“I know. I have one.” I try to remember what I was doing, “I had to scrub mine with kosher salt and a halved potato to get rid of the rust “

“But if you just wash it and put it on the stove to dry it won't rust,” she says calmly.

“I know. I have one,” I repeat, then pull my eyes away from the screen to look at my child, who is calling me repeatedly. I'm holding my breath. It's the opposite of what I'm supposed to do, but in the moment, I don't notice. My body is tense. My shoulders are hunched up near my ears. 

“Look at this!”Child says, and slurps spaghetti.

“Well did you forget? Or was it just laziness?”

My back aches from the tension. Not my lower back, but the middle bit, the muscles behind my lungs. I don't answer. My child is still asking me to look at the spaghetti slurping and asking if it’s fast or slow, but asking me to say fast if I say slow. I don't answer my mother. I no longer remember what I was working on. 

“I've never forgotten,” she continues, unaware of what’s going on inside of my body.

“Well, you're not sick in the head like me,” I snap, a lot softer than I want to. I'm surprised I said anything at all. These days, my way of getting through each day is to disclose as little as possible about myself, my life, and especially my feelings. I don't want any interactions. I don't want more stress. I don't want anything to be harder than it already is, because it already feels impossible. 

My brother makes a comment about hitting me with the pan. Or maybe it was my mother, once my brother had repeated my comment to her. They're too alike for my memory to distinguish them sometimes. 

“You can't blame your illness for everything!” My mother chides. 

Well, seeing as how it feels like a constant crippling weight now that I'm unmedicated, uninsured, and without a therapist in a high-stress, uncomfortable situation from which my body wants to either flee or claw through everything in sight in a blind rage and yet I somehow do the impossible and keep myself from doing either, then yes, mother. Yes, I think I can blame my “illness” for lacking both the presence of mind and motivation to wash the damn pan. 

“I'll buy you a new one,” I say without thinking, eyes moving back to the computer screen, my right leg bouncing a mile a minute. 

“That’s ridiculous.” She says and repeats the statement about it not being that hard. Then: “I think it's just laziness.” 

I feel her looking at me. I don't look back. I just sigh, then turn away from my screen once again and tell my toddler to yes, please, slurp the spaghetti fast not slow. 

[millionancientbees]

Every day, twice a day

I stagger into the bathroom, squint

as I turn on the light

fight to squeeze out toothpaste, and

prepare myself

Looking at me from the mirror

is my mother’s face

same wavy, dry hair with

a skunk stripe of grey

right in the bangs

I inherited hashimotos, and in turn

her puffy, dry eyes,

bumpy, sagging cheeks

thinning, frowning lips

I miss her like I miss home;

the warm sun shining in through

the picture window,

the burnt orange kitchen counter,

thirty year old burn marks

scorched into its surface,

the couch that eats you and won’t

let you go

It aches in my chest, a solid weight

I open my mouth to laugh, and

sometimes, her laugh comes out

deep and from the belly

people lean in, trusting

of her warmth that has kindled,

unwanted, in me

I open my mouth to speak

and there she is, a forever piece of me

She is my anger, too, my

urge to raise my voice, to

take one step closer and make this

personal, dirty, mean

what I say when I say

that I am not nice, I

come with a warning label, I

know who you are and will tell you

I know how to listen and to watch, hold

my breath and wait,

I know how to know you, well

and how to use it against you,

that a punch is a warning, that

it is the least painful thing I could do, but

I spit and

I rinse and I

close my mouth and

tuck her a little deeper, a little

further away from my heart,

flip the switch and hope that

someday she’ll stop reaching

up my throat, through my face,

to the light of

the life I’ve built

for me.