My Parents Gave Me CPTSD — Then Called Me a Liar

Trigger Warning: This blog contains descriptions of childhood abuse and trauma. Please prioritise your own mental health before reading.

Family Dynamics

Let me begin by explaining my family dynamics. I am the eldest daughter. My mom has been with my stepdad since I was a baby, and I have a half-brother who was born when I was three or four.

From the onset — and I can’t speak to what happened before my brother was born as I was too young to remember — there was an imbalance in our house. My stepdad brought with him preconceived ideas about what I would be like as an older sister, based on his own sibling relationships. You can read more about this here: https://shopping-feedback.today/families/the-inheritance-of-resentment%3C/p%3E%3Cstyle data-emotion-css="14azzlx-P">.css-14azzlx-P{font-family:Droid Serif,Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:1.1875rem;-webkit-letter-spacing:0.01em;-moz-letter-spacing:0.01em;-ms-letter-spacing:0.01em;letter-spacing:0.01em;line-height:1.6;color:#1A1A1A;margin-top:32px;}

Alongside this, he seemed to have little ability to regulate his emotions. Though, as a colleague once pointed out, he only seemed unable to regulate them around people physically weaker than him — or in situations where his job or reputation wasn’t at stake.

It’s important to note that I didn’t realise my mom was complicit in what happened to me until quite recently. I used to believe that because her abuse wasn’t physical — only backhanded compliments, thinly veiled insults, and failure to intervene — it didn’t count.

My First Memories

My mom worked evenings at a shop just around the corner. I remember hating when she left, because that meant I’d be alone with my stepdad. He claimed I disliked the “routine” of it being just us, but in reality, he was angry, unpredictable, and — to my five-year-old brain — someone to fear.

At the time, I had dyspraxia (a developmental coordination disorder), and so I was inevitably clumsy, no matter how hard I tried. Every year, my nan on my mom’s side gave us ceramic Christmas mugs filled with chocolate. One evening, I took one of these mugs upstairs with a drink for bed — and accidentally knocked it over.

Now, as an adult with a stepson who also has dyspraxia and is about the same age, I can clearly see: if you know a child is clumsy, give them a cup with a lid.

I didn’t want to go downstairs and tell him, but I couldn’t clean it up alone. When I did, he chased me back upstairs, screaming. I ran into my room and dove onto my bed, curling up against the wall. He picked up the ceramic mug and threw it at my wooden ottoman bedside table. It shattered. Pieces of broken ceramic landed all over me and my bed.

He left me to sleep in it. The next morning, my mom asked why there were big chunks of ceramic in my bed. I told her what had happened — and she did nothing.

My Weight

Around the same time, my stepdad’s parents bought an apartment in Menorca, and we would go there for cheap holidays. On one of these trips, he laid out clothes for me to wear. One pair of shorts was labelled for ages 2–3 (I know this because I found them again years later). They obviously didn’t fit — I was much older at the time.

He shouted at me: “You’re so fat, you look like you’re pregnant.” I was five.

From then on, how I looked and ate became ongoing sources of criticism. When I was around eleven, he barged into the family bathroom while I was naked and about to get into the bath. He looked at me and said I looked like a “beached whale.”

I did gain weight during my teenage years due to PCOS, and this only fuelled them on. There were nearly daily interventions where I would be told how fat I was (UK dress size 14 at the time) and how I needed to lose weight.

More recently — about five years ago, before we went no contact — I asked my mom how I looked in a dress. Unprompted, he chimed in: “Well, you look better than you did, because you’d put on so much weight it was ridiculous.”

At my birthday meal that same year, I was ridiculed until I burst into tears in a restaurant in front of his parents — all because I was separating my food before eating it.

The Big Things

My childhood was filled with hits and slaps, but these are the larger, more memorable events.

Christmas Present

My stepdad’s mom once got me a keyboard for Christmas. In a rage, my half-brother punched and dented it. I went downstairs crying. My brother wouldn’t admit what he’d done, so my stepdad sat us both on the stairs and hit us, one after the other, until one of us confessed.

I took several blows before my brother finally admitted it.

In a rare moment of interest, my mom asked, “Aren’t you going to apologise to [my name]?”

His reply: “No, she was naughty earlier.”

Head First

When I was around eleven, we had an argument. I don’t remember what it was about, because what happened next overshadowed everything.

I used to sit on my windowsill with the window open and take deep breaths to calm down. He came into my room and said, “What, are you going to jump?” Then he grabbed my ankle and pushed me out the second-storey window — head first. The only thing keeping me from falling was his grip on my ankle.

When he pulled me back in, I kicked out at him. He slammed my head off my bedside table.

The Bathroom Door

At fifteen, I had started realising that the more time I spent away from home, the better. But it wasn’t always enough.

One night I’d come home from my boyfriend’s. He could drive, and I had accidentally left my house key in his car. So I came in through the back door.

As usual, my stepdad started on me the moment I walked in, ruining the good mood I’d been in. I ignored him and went to my room. He followed, shouting, and began pounding up the stairs. I knew this would escalate.

I sprinted to the bathroom and locked the door. (Yes, I had my own bathroom — which is why the police wouldn’t believe me, according to my mom.)

He threw himself against the door. It was solid oak and held — for a while. I was crying and screaming, certain he was going to hurt me if he got in. I held the door with my weight and managed to call my boyfriend for help.

To my horror, the doorframe started coming off the wall. After a few more minutes, the whole thing came loose. He slammed the door into me and grabbed me. I was still hysterical. He dragged me downstairs and threw me onto the sofa, shouting that I was “crazy” and he was going to have me committed.

Then we heard the front door open. My boyfriend had used my key to let himself in. My stepdad stormed over and tried to push him out. I couldn’t hear what they were saying over my sobs, but I managed to run under his arm and get outside with my boyfriend.

My stepdad tried to pull me back in, but I clung to the doorframe and screamed. It was late at night and the road was empty, but maybe he realised someone might call the police. He shoved me backwards and said, “You aren’t even worth it.” Then he slammed the door.

My boyfriend drove me to my nan’s (on my mom’s side), where I stayed for a few days before going back home.

According to My Mom, None of This Ever Happened

I’m delusional, apparently. They weren’t abusive.

Before writing this, I reached out to that boyfriend (we hadn’t spoken in 12 years) to ask if he remembered what happened that night — and anything else he had witnessed.

After someone reported concerns, the police did come to my school to ask about what was going on at home. I lied and told them everything was fine. I did this out of a misplaced loyalty to my mom and brother. My stepdad was our only source of income. I didn’t know what would happen to the house or to my mom if he were arrested.

When I Was Eighteen

I was at college. By then, my half-brother had started to behave like my stepdad — and he’d realised that in our house, he could do whatever he wanted without consequences.

One night, we’d each been given a list of chores. I did mine. He didn’t. My stepdad told me to do my brother’s as well. I refused. I was finally getting tired of it all.

My stepdad told my brother to go to his room. Then he grabbed me by the hair and my shirt and threw me onto the laminate floor in the living room. I landed face-first and ended up with a bruised cheek and black eye.

As I was eighteen, my college tutor couldn’t intervene. She encouraged me to go to the police — but I didn’t. Again, because of my mom.

I went to stay with my grandparents (on my stepdad’s side) this time. They had witnessed several incidents of him being abusive towards their other children — and still, they refused to believe me.

My Mom

Being in a home where throwing things and hitting each other is considered normal isn’t safe.

After I moved out, my stepdad began targeting my half-brother. Eventually, my brother punched him and knocked him out. But the chaos didn’t stop.

Here are some messages my mom sent me in 2020.

To my knowledge, she wasn’t physically abused while I lived there. I believe this message was about an argument where she got caught between my stepdad and brother, and they started throwing things at each other.

Evidence

When you’re hiding abuse to protect your mom or because your stepdad is the only financial support in the house, you don’t have many witnesses. You isolate yourself — by design. It also didn't help that my Mom would tell me that other family members were saying awful things about me behind my back, and for a long time I blindly believed her.

I dated a boy when I was 14 for just four months. I reached out before writing this to ask if he remembered anything.

There are others I could ask. His mom made me food because mine wouldn’t feed me. I cried on her sofa more than once. My college tutor is still in touch — and remembers.

But honestly, I don’t feel I need to ask anyone else. It’s clear this happened — through what I’ve written and the messages I’ve shown.

Why It Isn’t Their Fault

Despite me ending up with CPTSD — and the trauma triggering fibromyalgia — it isn’t their fault.

Let me share some more messages from my mom. These were right before we went no contact.

As you can see, it isn’t their fault because, apparently, it didn’t happen. I made it up for “attention.” At least, that’s the narrative they’re spreading.

It’s incredibly sad. If they could take ownership, maybe I could have moved on. But abusers don’t take ownership.

Disclaimer for Legal Purposes

My mom sent me this when I started telling my story:

I pointed out that slander is a civil matter, not a police one. But obviously — for legal purposes — this was all completely fictitious.