Everyone thinks she’s the perfect mother. Worried, concerned, and minds my personal space. You know, the usual “cool” parent stuff. She takes me to therapy, and doesn’t yell at me when I cry. However, most of the time, it’s because of her that I cry.
She’s always been mentally abusive. When I was a child, I was bullied and she just told me to “suck-it-up”, and that it was my fault that I was put into that situation. She told me that there was something wrong with me and encouraged me to change. Every time I made a new friend, she told me it wouldn’t last long, that they use me and then move on to better things.
As I grew up, she eased up on the mental abuse, but only because she started to check out my maturing body. I was not an early bloomer. I was somewhere in the middle. She always insisted on watching me shower and she inspected my washing, just to see if I was properly washing, she said.
She would slap my ass, and still thinks it’s okay to check it out. I tell her stop, that it’s making me uncomfortable, but she shrugs and says it’s her right as my birth mother. Everytime I showed a bit of cleavage she decided to set her stuffed dog (I know) into it and then with a playful voice scolded me for withholding that pleasure. She disgusts me but I’m still a minor, so I can’t do much.
She slaps my ass, and bitches about me in front of me, all at the same time acting concerned. I do not care if she’s sexually frustrated. She started bitching about how I never wear my tight and cute clothes while at the same time slut-shaming me if I do wear them. If I wear makeup, I’m seducing a man, and when I’m not wearing makeup, I’m being an ugly bitch who doesn’t know how to please herself. Everytime we go to a party, she tells me to dress up, “for yourself”, she tells me. And if I do, I’m a slut.
Last year my mother and I were in Chicago and a guy slapped my ass. Needless to say, she started bitching about how I never look anywhere and I’m such a slut. I was taking a picture of the Chicago skyline. We do not live in Illinois. We go there every year as tourists. This year, she obviously didn’t remember anything and accused me of making up stories, all the while staring at my cleavage.
I have depression, social anxiety, and suicidal thoughts. I would confess sooner but I’m afraid. Of what, I think you know.