The emotional abuse I grew up with didn’t just shape me, it fractured my family.
My parents divorced in 2016, but I hadn’t spoken to my father since January 31, 2009, my wedding day.
We fought that day because my dad insisted my brother sit at the head table, even though we had agreed long ago it would be for parents and grandparents only.
He picked a fight on what should have been the happiest day of my life.
Now I know narcissists have a way of ruining happy occasions.
Afterward, I told my then wife-to-be that day, “After today, I’m never speaking to him again.”
And I didn’t.
For over a decade, I kept my distance because it was the only way I could survive.
Now that I’ve mentioned my brother, it hits me that I’ve gone seven posts without really talking about him. I’ll share more about that in a future post. If you’ve been following my Instagram lately, you’ve seen me post about how much my kids love each other. I can tell you I never had that kind of relationship with my brother. It was a very different story.
My Mother’s Pain and Her Escape
My mother battled alcoholism for much of my life.
She hid bottles around the house, numbing her pain the only way she knew how. She tried, but the emotional weight of that home was crushing.
In December 2019, she died of liver cancer, a heartbreaking, almost inevitable end to a lifetime of silent suffering.
Her death brought the unimaginable: I had to see my father again.
The moment I learned she was gone, dread set in. I hadn’t been in the same room as him in over a decade, and now I’d have to face him on the very day I found out my mother had died. My chest was tight, my stomach in knots, and still, I wasn’t prepared for the first words out of his mouth.
The first thing he said to me?
“If you hadn’t forced your mother and me to divorce, I could’ve saved her.”
And he meant it.
I stood there stunned, blamed for her death as if I had ended their 45-year marriage myself.
But she left him. That was her choice.
Still, he pointed the finger at me.
How I Found Out She Was Gone
My mom died on December 2, 2019.
I didn’t find out until the next day.
It was my day off. I was stretched out on the couch, killing time online, when my phone rang.
I recognized the number. It was the company that rented her medical equipment.
“Is this Michael?” the woman asked.
“Yes.”
“We’re calling to arrange the pick-up of your mother’s medical equipment.”
I frowned. “Why do you need to pick it up?”
Silence. Not a pause, a void.
Then, softly:
“…You didn’t know your mom died yesterday?”
I froze. My chest tightened. My throat closed.
“I have to go,” I muttered, and hung up.
I immediately called my ex-wife.
The only words I could get out were: “I think my mom died yesterday.”
And then there was the woman on the other end of that call, a stranger who thought she was making a routine pickup arrangement, not delivering terrible news. She had no idea I didn’t know. I’m sure I ruined her day, because never in a million years did she expect to be the one to tell a random stranger their mother had died.
What broke me wasn’t just how I found out, it was knowing my father had known for a full day and chose to say nothing.
Loving Her. Resenting Her. Missing Her.
I loved my mother deeply.
But I also resented her.
Resented that she didn’t protect me.
That she couldn’t stop what was happening.
That she stayed silent while my father tore us down.
That duality, love and resentment, has lived inside me for years.
I’ve made peace with some of it, but not all.
Some wounds heal. Some just soften.
Why I’m Telling You This
Because emotional abuse doesn’t just bruise your past.
It tangles your present and echoes through your relationships.
It turns love into grief, silence into shame, and memory into confusion.
If you’ve ever felt that mix — love, pain, anger, guilt — you’re not broken.
You’re not alone.
This is just part of the story.
Part of my story.
And maybe part of yours.
Next Time on Tattooed Truths
A memory I don’t actually remember.
A push against a wall.
And the story of how even the moments you can’t recall can leave scars.
#TattooedTruths #EmotionalAbuse #ChildhoodTrauma #BreakingTheCycle #HealingJourney