The smell of burnt toast and the faint echo of a slammed door are the first things I remember. It wasn’t a gentle morning routine; it was a symphony of chaos, a prelude to the day’s performance. My mother, a woman who could make Medusa look like a kindergarten teacher, was the conductor. She wasn’t inherently evil, but she had a temper as fiery as a dragon’s breath and a tongue that could strip paint off a wall. Growing up, I felt like I was navigating a minefield, each step a potential explosion of her rage.
Image: www.youtube.com
The “Female Devil” moniker wasn’t a term of endearment; it was a chilling reality. It wasn’t just the scolding, the belittling, or the constant sense of being under scrutiny that made her a “devil.” It was the coldness in her eyes, the venom in her words, the lack of empathy for my struggles and my dreams. My childhood was a constant battle for approval, a chase after a phantom prize that was never within reach.
A Life in a Cage of Criticism
Her criticisms were like a relentless hailstorm, each word a biting shard of ice that pierced my soul. I was never good enough, never smart enough, never pretty enough. My achievements were minimized, my efforts dismissed, and my failures were used as weapons to tear me down. Even the smallest mistakes, the fumbles that every child makes, were blown out of proportion, painted as catastrophic evidence of my inferiority.
Every day felt like a performance review, a brutal assessment of my worth. It wasn’t just my accomplishments that were under her microscope; it was everything I did. How I ate, how I walked, how I spoke – all subject to her scrutiny and critique. I learned to shrink, to become invisible, to avoid her gaze as best I could.
A Mother Who Never Gave a Hug
Love, in its purest form, was a foreign concept in our home. Physical affection, like a gentle touch or a warm embrace, was as unattainable as a unicorn. Her love was conditional, a fickle beast that appeared and disappeared depending on my performance. I learned to crave validation from anyone who offered a genuine compliment or a kind word. Any form of genuine affection, even from a stranger, felt like a rare treasure discovered in a dusty attic.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? The woman who brought me into the world, who gave me life, also inadvertently stole my sense of self-worth. I was taught to fear her disapproval more than I craved her love.
The Long Shadow of Her Words
The scars of her words are still visible, even years later. They linger like phantom pain, a constant reminder of the battles I fought and the ground I lost. I stumbled through the world, unsure of myself, always seeking validation from others, afraid to make mistakes. The shadow of her judgment loomed over my every choice, a silent dictator whispering doubt and uncertainty.
But somewhere along the way, amidst the pain and the self-doubt, a seed of resilience sprouted. I realized that while I couldn’t change my past, I could choose to rewrite my future.
Image: www.pinterest.ca
Breaking Free From the Chains
The journey to reclaim my sense of self-worth wasn’t easy. It involved confronting my own insecurities, unpacking the baggage of my childhood, and learning to forgive, not just her, but also myself. I sought therapy, building a support network of trusted friends and loved ones who offered empathy and encouragement.
It wasn’t a sudden transformation, but a slow and often painful process of healing. It involved learning to believe in myself, to recognize my own strengths, and to acknowledge that my worth wasn’t defined by her opinions.
Finding My Own Light
Today, I am a far cry from the girl who was raised by a “Female Devil.” I’ve learned to embrace my imperfections, to forgive my mistakes, and to let go of the need for validation from others. I’ve found my own light, a light that burns brighter than any darkness she tried to cast upon me.
I still carry the scars of her words, but they no longer define me. I have learned to honor the resilience that allowed me to survive those harsh years, to appreciate the strength that has helped me rise above the ashes of her judgment. The story of my childhood is a complicated one, filled with pain and darkness, but it is also a testament to the human capacity for resilience and hope.
I Was Raised By A Female Devil
The Importance of Healing
Sharing my story isn’t about blaming my mother or seeking revenge. It’s about recognizing that we all carry the weight of our past, and that trauma can manifest in unexpected ways. It’s a reminder that healing is possible, even from the deepest wounds.
If you, too, are grappling with the shadow of a difficult past, know that you are not alone. Seek support, find your own light, and remember that you deserve to live a life filled with love, self-acceptance, and joy. Your journey to healing may be long and challenging, but it is worth every step. You are stronger than you know. You are worth it.
