I spent most of my life after my sisters were born walking on eggshells around my mother. I never knew what was going to set her off. Though most of the time it didn’t involve me doing anything.
I was always afraid. Afraid of the explosion. Going from quiet monster to raging bull running down Spanish streets. And I was always in the way no matter where I hid. Rage, rage. Screaming and yelling. I could always hear her, no matter what. The venom dripping. The insults, the put downs, the damning me to hell. Nothing calmed this beast because she loved to rage in her power.
So I was always afraid. Terrified of setting her off. Never knowing the trigger or location of the trap. My sisters never had to worry about the raging bull. She might raise her voice at them but apologize and then point the finger at me and then the bombardment would begin. They only had to deal with upset that would soon calm down. I was the only one who had to face rage.
I was terrorized into my fear. And constantly abused to stay there. My mother loved to see my cowering and hiding, my shivering fear. She fed off that fear which made her feel powerful. She didn’t have to carry out threats, only make them. I was that afraid and believed all too well what I thought would happen. Threats were never carried out but I believed the lies. They only had to be true once.
Not just the going to hell but also being arrested by police (I was still a young child) because my mother would have called them to come and get me. Remember, the lies were absolute truths to me.
I still live with that fear. Still afraid of setting someone off, though not my mother so much, any more. But afraid. Constantly afraid, especially of failure because no one likes failure so that gives them permission to rant and rage and hit.