Unseen Scars: My Journey Through Gaslighting and Parental Abuse
Growing up, I had no idea what gaslighting was. It wasn’t until I was well into adulthood that I even heard the term. I know it had been around since before I was born, popularized by a very old movie, but I don’t think it became mainstream until somewhat recently—definitely after it could have helped me in any meaningful way. If I could have pointed this out to my therapists as a young adult or teenager, maybe it would have made a difference, but then again, maybe no one would have believed me since most people never did.
It wasn’t for lack of trying to expose my father that this went unnoticed. It wasn’t even a lack of proper vocabulary. I did my best at every turn to show everyone the abusive manipulator he was. However, several factors worked against me—things that could never be changed and were deeply detrimental to my life, social skills, and development, hindering me as an adult to an unbelievable degree.
I know people will say you can’t blame everything on your parents. But when they treated you so horribly that you developed PTSD from the abuse, and it genuinely stunted your growth, who else is there to blame? Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying all my faults and failures are because of my parents. I’ve caused my own problems, and I own that. But would I be on an entirely different path if my father (and, to a lesser extent, my mother) hadn’t created this life for me without my consent?
Starting at age 11, my parents, for some reason, were convinced I had ADHD. I don’t know why they thought this, other than it being a “new” and “trendy” diagnosis at the time that they latched onto. I also know my parents were obsessed with the idea that I had to be mentally ill—but only with whatever trendy diagnosis they wanted me to have, even if the facts showed otherwise. It was some kind of Munchausen by proxy, but instead of making me appear physically ill, they tried to make me seem crazy. They wanted me to be the problem child, so they made me the problem child, and I became the family scapegoat.
I think part of this stemmed from the fact that I was adopted, while my sisters were their biological children. My mother never really wanted an adopted child; she settled for one, but then my sister came along. We’ll call her Lauren for privacy’s sake. After Lauren was born, my mother lost interest in raising me or even attempting to bond with me—by her own admission. She was perfectly fine explaining to me that when Lauren was born, I was “old enough” to be by myself, and she handed me off to a nanny or family friends. Keep in mind, I was 11 months old—not even a toddler—but she decided I didn’t need her love, care, or attention. Lauren did, and I was pushed aside. Even when I questioned her about this as an adult, she couldn’t comprehend what she did wrong.
This eventually led to me developing Reactive Attachment Disorder, or RAD for short. Except my parents didn’t want to hear or accept that, so they ignored it. I shouldn’t know this, but as an adult, I tracked down and contacted every therapist I could remember who was still alive and willing to talk to me. This included the therapist I had at age four, who clearly remembered trying to explain to my mother that I had RAD, but my mother refused to accept it. Her theory (and mine) was that my mother thought admitting I had RAD would mean admitting she was a “bad parent.” The reality is that even the best parents of adopted children can have a child with RAD. Since my mother didn’t want to believe it, it went untreated, and untreated RAD turns into a host of emotional and behavioral issues as a young teen and adult.
Was this why they thought I had ADHD, or was my behavior a result of untreated RAD? Was I even acting any differently from other kids? I know the answer is no because I remember being dragged out of class multiple times to be tested for ADHD, and every single test showed I didn’t have it. When a doctor told my parents this, they’d just take me to another doctor and run the test again. This happened multiple times. Eventually, they gave up on that in favor of telling people (including me) that I had borderline personality disorder. I didn’t know what that was, obviously, but they insisted I had it. They would point out what I later learned were normal behaviors and reactions to abuse as “signs of my mental illness.” For example, if I cried because something upsetting happened, they’d say I was being “manic.” If I got angry because something made me angry, that was also “manic.” I’m talking about legitimate, normal teenage emotions that any teenager would have—not raging over petty things. The worst part was that any time I showed any emotion—happy, sad, angry, you name it—they painted it as me being “mentally ill” and acting “crazy.” That’s when I learned to hide my emotions.
As you can guess, being a teenager, enduring this abuse, and being bullied at school and at home (because this wasn’t the only thing they did to me) caused my emotions to build and build until I’d explode. This would just be more “proof” that I was crazy, without ever acknowledging that they were the ones who taught me to hide and fear my emotions. Any emotion meant I was “crazy,” so I couldn’t have them.
Two other factors compounded this:
My mother constantly picked on my appearance. I wasn’t allowed to have long hair because, in her opinion, it looked bad. I remember several times being held down to get my hair cut the way she wanted. I hated it because both my sisters were allowed to have their hair as long as they wanted, as were all my friends. I wasn’t permitted to have hair past my shoulders—usually not even past my ears—until I left their house, all because of my mother. She criticized how my teeth looked, said my head was too big, my face too narrow—anything and everything she could think of to tear me down based on my appearance was her go-to, my entire life. She even does it now that I’m an adult, but I’ve learned not to care what she thinks.
Then there was my father, who actively gaslit me at every opportunity, always when we were alone with no witnesses. He would say the most vile, horrible things to me, but the moment someone else entered the room or we were in public, he’d switch it off and act perfectly calm and rational. When people asked why I was upset, I’d try to explain what he’d said, and he’d lie, saying I misheard him or only heard what I wanted to hear, insisting he’d never say such things.
My parents were on a crusade to make me seem as crazy as possible to everyone on the outside so that when I tried to report what they were doing, no one believed me. When they paid a psychiatrist to diagnose me with borderline personality disorder at age 16 (and convinced me I had it despite no signs of it), things got worse. Any time I tried to tell on my parents or seek help, my dad would say, “She has a personality disorder and is prone to delusions,” pointing to my diagnosis. Then, no one believed me. It was their get-out-of-jail-free card to torment me however they wanted, whenever they wanted, and get away with it. My sisters were spared this treatment, and since both parents always targeted me when we were alone, my sisters deny any of this happened. Their only narrative is that I was a “bad kid,” and my parents were just doing “what was right” because I needed to be punished.
These days, I constantly question everything about myself—my memories, my experiences, whether I’m making things up, or if I really was that bad. Yet, people who knew me back then, as a child and teen, have confirmed they believed my dad was abusive, and at least two of them told me they tried to warn my mother before she cut them off. I know witnesses back my experience, professionals back my experience, and counselors and therapists back my experience. No one would agree with me if I were the monster, demon, borderline child my dad (even to this day) claims I am. Do you know what it’s like to doubt your entire life, to not trust your memories, to second-guess yourself even when your father says something you know is false?
Gaslighting may not leave physical scars, but it leaves mental ones, and I intend to speak more about it because this needs to be known. It needs to stop. My father will get away with what he’s done to me, and I’ll never get an explanation as to why he did it. The same goes for my mother, but I won’t let them control me anymore. My memories are real, my experiences are valid, and I’m here to share this story with whoever will listen. Maybe it can help someone going through the same thing, or maybe it will just be cathartic for me to write down the truth and stop hiding for once.
