Chapter 1: The Weight of Childhood Trauma

In beginning to write about the tendency to hastily medicate children, I often reflect on the potential harm that was done to my developing psyche due to the numerous medications I was prescribed as a child—some for me and others intended for my mother. I frequently find myself pondering how much of my anxiety stems from having taken six different antidepressants and mood stabilizers before I even turned eight. It’s evident that my physical health suffered, but I suspect the mental toll was significant as well. My thoughts often revert to those nights when I was wide awake at three in the morning and my mother would give me sleeping pills just for asking for a book or a glass of water.

However, every time I attempted to write, I would halt after only a few sentences, as my thoughts continuously returned to my mother. I felt an odd sense that by penning this piece, I would somehow be letting her win.

It was then that I had a realization, one that had been lurking just beneath the surface; a creeping anxiety that surfaced whenever I lost my temper. Despite my mother having been absent from my life for five years, I was still permitting her verbal abuse to victimize me.

My mother struggled with substance addiction for as long as I can remember. One of the consequences was her imparting her coping mechanisms onto me through self-medication. It began with her giving me Klonopin when I was just seven to help with my nightmares; this eventually escalated to her providing me with cigarettes at twelve after I returned home in tears from a friend’s silent treatment. But honestly, much of this was merely background noise, not something I truly grasped until I distanced myself from her. It was only later that I understood that the people frequently entering and exiting our home were there to buy drugs.

The most painful aspect of my childhood was being her verbal punching bag during her unstable moments, which occurred often. To this day, I still feel anxious about visiting the doctor, a lingering effect of being part of her schemes to acquire prescription medications. It wasn't until I became a mother myself that I recognized the parts of my psyche that needed healing. I had never learned effective coping strategies; my only tools were rage and substances.

The reality is that I spent a significant portion of my childhood living in fear of my mother. The unpredictability of her mood swings kept me perpetually on edge. Like many aspects of life, there were highs and lows. Not every moment was bleak; there were indeed good times. She could put on a façade of normalcy when in public, which often left me feeling trapped and questioning my own perceptions. Yet, predictably, after a brief period of relative calm, the moment I began to feel less dread about returning home from school, everything would shift. Each time was worse than the last, and I still find myself waiting for everything to go awry.

I find myself obsessing over minor details, convinced that if I manage them all, I can avoid the pitfalls my mother faced, even as the rational part of my brain reminds me that this isn't true. In those formative years as I was building my own family, I was terrified that I would be the reason it all fell apart. It was only recently that I connected the dots. Every decision and action generates a ripple effect. I now realize that nearly two decades of emotional abuse would inevitably shape me. The environment my mother created significantly influenced my behaviors, habits (both constructive and destructive), fears, and even my aspirations, driving me to cultivate a healthy home.

For a long time, any hint of my mother’s traits emerging within me was met with immediate rejection. It didn’t matter if it was a fondness for tea or a flare-up of anger. My anger reminded me of her the most, adding layers of anxiety and self-loathing. I began to observe my behaviors, trying to understand why I acted the way I did. I was determined to deny any acknowledgment of her influence on my actions, my self-treatment, or the guilt I felt over something as simple as eating a piece of bread. I wanted nothing to do with her, including the parts of me that were connected to her.

Now, I am blessed with a wonderful family and a fulfilling life. While things can get chaotic, and parenting lacks a manual, we all feel safe, loved, and happy, which is truly all I could wish for.

I have come to understand that holding myself to unrealistic standards to avoid any resemblance to my mother is neither healthy nor fair to myself. For my own well-being, I must embrace and nurture all aspects of who I am, even those that echo her. Because while I wouldn’t be the person I am today without her, I am not defined by her legacy.

This article was initially published in the Feminine Collective under my previous name back in 2013.

Section 1.1: Understanding Maternal Influence

Reflecting on how maternal figures shape us is crucial for healing. It's essential to acknowledge both the positive and negative aspects of these relationships.

Subsection 1.1.1: The Cycle of Abuse

Chapter 2: Embracing a New Identity

In this live performance, Courtney Barnett expresses themes of identity and personal struggle, resonating with the journey of breaking free from maternal expectations.

The official music video for "I'm Not Your Mother" by ALITA captures the essence of reclaiming one's identity and rejecting unhealthy influences.