When I was little and tried to tell people what was going on at home, they invariably interrupted me. They assured me that I wasn’t experiencing anything abnormal; on the contrary, I should count my lucky stars that I had such a wonderful mother. Once I grew up, the message changed: I ought to be more understanding. I ought to forgive. Above all, I ought to quit seeing therapists.
Today, at forty, like the contemporary artist Marina Abramović who works from her body, I am finally allowing myself to drain my wound of its pus, of this taboo anger that has been rotting me from the inside.
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| I should count my lucky stars that I had such a wonderful mother |
At home, violence threatened to erupt at any time. No one protected me. I lived in terror. If I tried to defend myself against my mother, my father silenced me, urging me to “stop pouring gasoline on the fire.” With these words, he held me partially responsible for her behavior. Rage surged through my guts like lava, burning me a little more every day.
I couldn’t confide in anyone. In public, my mother donned the mask of a saint. A brilliant manipulator, she charmed everyone, from our extended family to our teachers to shopkeepers. Inside the house too, I had to cover up my feelings: to reinforce her power, she pitted my father, my brother, and me against one another. She coaxed each of us to share our intimate thoughts so as to be better able to expose and humiliate us when she saw fit.
To this day, I’m wary of everything: of myself, of others—even those I know well—of performing the most mundane tasks.
photo © John Salvino