COMING UNSTUCK A student’s tale of the pain behind the very necessary decision to create some distance from a controlling parent. By Jay Sulak
Note: themes of suicide, abuse, toxicity, depression, anxiety It took me a week after my attempt to tell my mother that I had tried to commit suicide. She slapped me, sharp and dry. She asked what she’d ever done to me and why would I ever want to end it all. I didn’t tell her why I attempted to end my life. I couldn’t honestly answer her. It has taken me months to admit to myself that she was part of the reason. I was constantly on edge, waiting for a panic attack. Most of the time, we were quiet in the comfort of our family house. Every night, we ate dinner together and spent evenings watching movies. When my depression was really bad, I would tell her that I was feeling drained and empty. She would stroke my hair and call me pretty. But then a storm would come. My mother has called me all kinds of things including lazy, useless, selfish and a slut. She has tried before to get into my laptop to read what I may have said
about her to my friends. She has threatened to commit suicide “because you did that so easily.” She says I use depression as an excuse. Half the time, I don't know if she means it or if it’s just a spur of the moment thing to say. More often than not I have stayed quiet in order to avoid provoking her further. My mother has slapped me twice while I have been an adult. It was like a needle poked the blood clot in Mum’s throbbing anger and it exploded, raging and messy. Voices would get louder and louder until my ears were ringing curses in the silence. Before the anti-smacking law, slaps and shoves were a way to reset my brain and shock me into listening. Bookshelves would topple, screaming would pierce my ears and plates would break. I would say sorry and eventually, she calmed and would sometimes apologise. But a part of me felt betrayed and sick.
