Why Abused Daughters Become Abused Wives
I never knew “who to cling to, when the rain set in”
“And it seems to me you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
Never knowing who to cling to
When the rain set in”
~Sir Elton John
I clearly remember a day when I was nearly 10 years old. Our family had moved house and that was our first day at our new school for my older sister and me. Our father, the narcissist alcoholic/gambler, was to pick us up after school but, as always, he was late … very late. It became darker as a thunderstorm built up that late summer afternoon. The school was closed for the day, and we were there with a nun who was decent enough not to leave us alone in a deserted school in the late afternoon, unlike my father.
As the storm built up, thunder boomed and lightning flashed as gusts of wind drove the heavy rain under the covered area where we were waiting. Suddenly, I was terrified and screamed “Mummy.” Of course, my mother wasn’t there. It was very unlike me to have an emotional outburst, so I surprised myself. Even more unlike me was it to scream for my mother, for there was never anyone to cling to when the rain set in. Dad finally arrived and took us home.
There was another move when we were three years younger, my sister nine and I seven. That afternoon it was winter, and my father had dropped us at our new school with instructions to one of the nuns to put us on a bus that would take us home, though she didn’t know which bus. It was winter, and dark by the time we got on a bus that took us to about a mile away from home, and so we walked, only vaguely confident of where we were going.
It’s not surprising that with our father always absent, and mum at work, my sister and I, aged approximately 4 and 6 at the time, were molested.
I remember we were very worried that it was dark, it was cold, there might be strangers around, and we didn’t know exactly how far from home we were. In Australia it’s dark at 5.00 pm in deep winter, and it was long after dark that we got home, so I imagine we were hungry as well. I wonder if, somehow, my fear the afternoon of the storm when I was 10 was triggered by that other night years before walking home alone in the cold dark knowing only to keep going.
My father was a realtor in those days, but prior to that, he was always away from home, at one time in New Guinea, employed as a diesel machine operator. Mum left us at home while she went to work in a “corner store” about a five-minute walk away. It’s not surprising that with our father always absent, and mum at work, my sister and I, aged approximately 4 and 6 at the time, were molested — by the owner of the corner store where mum worked. He took advantage of making deliveries of groceries, etc., to our house.
As a realtor, and by choice, dad worked seven days a week. He made a lot of money, not that we ever saw much of it, because he was a gambler. He specialized in selling vacant land on new estates. He would put a little caravan on site where he would sit with his cigarettes, thermos of drink, his racing form, and a transistor radio to listen to the horse races and keep track of his wins and losses. Later on, I realized that he loved his life, despite his addictions to gambling and alcohol. Although we lost our home once or twice, he usually had enough money, or friends with enough money to lend him, that he could continue on his merry way.
The story goes that grandmother, after bearing eight children, went to the local pharmacist in tears and asked for something to prevent any further pregnancies.
None of us children got more than the basic education simply because there was not enough money to support us. We had to leave school and start working. Naturally, this was also extremely hard on my mother.
Mum grew up on a dairy farm in between World Wars I and II, which included the great depression of the 1930’s. Mum and her siblings walked four miles to and from school, and they worked hard on the farm, getting up early on dark frosty winter mornings to help milk the cows. My aunt once told me that they had no shoes to wear at home so they would stand in the fresh cow urine on cold winter mornings to warm their feet.
My mother’s family consisted of 13 children — nine girls and four boys. The boys got the best educations and the best cuts of meat at dinnertime. My grandmother, judging from photos of her at her children’s weddings, had deep depression. The story goes that grandmother, after bearing eight children, went to the local pharmacist in tears and asked for something to prevent any further pregnancies. That would have been around 1920. The chemist said he couldn’t help her. There are other stories suggesting that grandfather forced himself on grandmother despite her pleas. Needless to say, mum had issues and insecurities.
At about age 9, I started to become my mother’s scapegoat and by age 12 it was in full force. I knew not to ask for anything unless it was imperative, like napkins for my period. There was never any praise, ever.
At about age 9, I started to become my mother’s scapegoat and by age 12 it was in full force. I knew not to ask for anything unless it was imperative, like napkins for my period. There was never any praise, ever. But there were plenty of occasions for humiliation, angry retorts, and put-downs. My maternal aunts jumped on the bandwagon; I was the daughter sent away to help out in the school holidays, although I was only a couple of years older than the cousins I was supposed to look after. And if I didn’t get everything right, there was plenty of verbal abuse.
My father also had a harsh upbringing, though for different reasons. Dad may have had ADHD but, for whatever reason, he was regularly beaten and eventually sent away to boarding school. I remember his mother — my paternal grandmother — as an unemotional woman who took care of our physical needs and provided entertainment, but no affection. In my case, she made it clear that I was not the favorite: that was my older sister who received gifts and concessions that I never received.
It’s only, really, in the last few years that I, now 71, have completely acknowledged how I was abused, and how that abuse impacted my entire adult life.
One of the reasons I didn’t acknowledge the impact of my abuse is gaslighting. I was gaslit by my parents, by siblings, my extended family, and my partners. I was an extremely attractive young woman, and I also lost jobs because I didn’t return the sexual interests of a few of my bosses over the years, although I blamed myself.
Over the years, as I was forced to leave abusive relationships, I sensed deep uncaring from my siblings, in particular. One of my sons was molested by the babysitter’s teenage son, and one day I confided in my younger sister, blaming myself, worrying about my son and the impact it would have on him. I was brokenhearted and devastated and desperately needed someone to care and confide in. After a while, my sister said to me “do we have to talk about this all day?” Believe it or not, it was like a slap in the face, a “how dare you do this to me?” and I think I actually apologized and stopped talking about it, although I felt as though I had been kicked in the stomach.
It’s only, really, in the last few years that I, now 71, have completely acknowledged how I was abused, and how that abuse impacted my entire adult life.
A couple of years ago, that same sister told me “You choose the wrong men”. This time I had the sense to realize what a judgemental witch she was, and I’ve never spoken to her since, to my great relief.
I now realize how my abuse as a daughter impacted my life and my relationships.
I now know that my unhealthy relationships were never my fault, because I did not deliberately choose men who would abuse me. My first husband physically abused me two weeks after we were married, not before. He was not a heavy drinker until years after we married. My second husband kept up the façade until we combined assets.
I realize that I grew up feeling a need to please the adults and significant others in my life in an effort to be treated kindly, or more likely, in an effort to have them find me worthy which, of course, never happened. And even when I wasn’t treated kindly, I knew I had to keep on pleasing them. And that is what my future partners would see in me: a pleaser, someone who would accommodate their selfish demands and ask little in return.
In describing the afternoon in the thunderstorm, I now realize how insecure I felt as a child. I could not count on my parents for emotional strength and comfort. My father was completely unreliable. I could count on my mother for ensuring structure and things like clean clothes, meals, and a clean, tidy house, but not for love.
I realize that I grew up feeling a need to please the adults and significant others in my life in an effort to be treated kindly, or more likely, in an effort to have them find me worthy which, of course, never happened.
I also remember that my father gave me no sense of security, either. It was bad enough when he wasn’t there, but worse when he was.
My father treated his children — except for his one and only son — like problems that had to be tolerated at best. He and my mother would leave us sitting for hours in the car while they went off together with our brother, and had lunch, or visited friends. We would be left to wait with no food or drink, and heaven help us if we reminded them that we were thirsty or hungry. We were made to keep quiet and await their mercy.
On one occasion when my mother was in hospital having our brother, interstate relatives visited, and my father drove us to the home of a distant relative. My younger sister and I were left sitting in the car for hours and when we were finally allowed inside, my father allowed us one drink of lemonade, but we were forbidden to have any of the biscuits we were offered. I don’t know if my siblings remember these incidents, maybe I took everything more seriously because I was also the family scapegoat.
Many people blame the victim: you choose the wrong men, or why didn’t you just leave? Or you should have kicked him out. What these people don’t understand is that there are a group of men who are attracted to women like me: like narcissists, psychopaths, and other damaged men. And these men know that if they make their true natures known too soon, we certainly will leave. So they wait until we’re somehow invested in the relationship before they start to let go of their disguise. They wait until you’re pregnant, or until after the child is born, or until after you’re married, or after you’ve combined your assets. Then you find out about their true nature.
In other words, they wait until they’ve made sure that leaving them won’t be easy: in fact, leaving them will mean selling the marital home, finding alternative accommodation, uprooting your children as well as yourself, packing up your lives into boxes and moving them, paying removalists, searching for rentals, paying bonds, getting a divorce, obtaining a settlement.
And those may be the easy parts!
There are a group of men who are attracted to women like me: like narcissists, psychopaths, and other damaged men. And these men know that if they make their true natures known too soon, we certainly will leave.
With my first marriage, the property settlement was clear cut according to law. But with my second marriage, the property settlement was riddled with confusion and conflict, all due to my husband’s lies, treachery, and deceit. Although we had asked our lawyer to put our interests at a sixty/forty split my husband’s way, this was overlooked and, when the marriage broke down, my husband insisted it was an eighty/twenty split his way.
And this is where the double-edged sword of low self-esteem and gaslighting comes in.
Believe it or not, for many years I actually believed that my second husband was NOT trying to cheat or exploit me! He earnestly and repeatedly told me that he loved me, and I believed him! Now I know why! I desperately needed to believe that someone cared, someone loved me, because my parents and siblings certainly didn’t. They were still playing their little games whenever they could. I had been running on empty all my life and now, in my fifties, I needed to believe that I was loved and that my husband was my friend. I couldn’t see that I had become his enemy when I stopped being his trophy. Surely, he wanted a loving wife to grow old with, just as I wanted a loving husband to grow old with?
No! Narcissists can’t envisage a time when they are not attractive to the opposite sex. As my husband got older, nastier, less careful with his hygiene, he still made statements about other women finding him attractive.
Also, in all my relationships there was a high level of gaslighting. There were so many incidents in my life when family and partners told me I was wrong when I felt I was right. My family would support each other, and if a group of people who are supposed to love you tell you often enough that black is white, you may not completely believe them, but you start to seriously doubt yourself. And it becomes easier and easier to stop believing in yourself.
Also, in all my relationships there was a high level of gaslighting. There were so many incidents in my life when family and partners told me I was wrong when I felt I was right.
There are those misguided people who believe that women in abusive relationships “crave” the conflict. For me, and for most women, that is absolutely wrong. I crave nothing more than to love in peace, I work at helping and being kind, not hindering and being cruel. There is more than enough pain in the world. I strive for harmony.
However, being an abused daughter means that at some level, I was possibly comfortable in abusive situations and subsequently didn’t see the abuse as a red flag, the way other women would have. For some women, there may be a need to re-create their family of origin and correct it. I don’t believe this applies to me, though it may.
If, as a child, you are ignored, abused, used, scapegoated, deprived, verbally abused — by the people who were supposed to love you, it’s not surprising that you go into adult relationships believing that these behaviors are normal.
For more information please go to Why Unloved Daughters Fall for Narcissists, and What to Do About It (psychcentral.com)
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