[Warning: This story talks about abuse and domestic violence.]
One of the hardest part of life is to lose someone you love. What can make that even harder is when that someone is still alive. This is Janice’s* story:
She was my first love. I was a foetus, helpless, dependent, needing her to sustain my very life. Her heart was my comforter. The wall between us, only paper thin. Every laugh. Every breath. Her every movement, I felt them all. Her bones wrapped around me, a kind of shelter. A constant embrace. Symbolic of a love that was meant to last.
She could do anything, even the things she didn’t want to. The leaking tap, the extra-tight jar lid, the wood chopping. She had to do the things a man usually did because there wasn’t any man. He had delightfully informed her of his extramarital secrets. The greater pleasures he had found. The value another had that she didn’t.
Even the dog barking viciously at midnight didn’t frighten her. Silently, she would creep out. When she was certain it was just a possum, she would make her way back to bed.
No-one ever told her she was capable, brave or strong. No-one ever told her she was intelligent or a people person. She only believed in herself to the level that everyone else did, which was small. Yet, she could light up a room with her kindness and make everyone erupt in childlike laughter.
Yet, before I even entered the world, I was afraid. For every cell in my body that had her X chromosome stamped on it, there was also fear infused. The joy was always murky with apprehension. I was terrified of losing her.
I had big dreams
She always got excited about mine, but never had any personally that she thought were worthy of investing in. Her dreams were “selfish”. There were more important things to do. Travelling, writing a book or learning how to paint weren’t going to make the world a better place, so why pursue them? Besides, there was never any spare money for holidays or paint brushes. The spare money should be used for someone else.
I always felt a little guilty that I had freedoms she didn’t. I could leave, I could travel, I could be adventurous and free-spirited. She had always wanted to be the same, but there were others who depended on her. Violent and terrorising, demanding that she do whatever they needed at a moment’s notice to pacify their withdrawals.
It was him. The most frightening domestic terrorist who also shared my DNA. She had given him life. He was slowly taking hers. There was never any place I could run to that would silence his roaring voice. Even with my head between my knees and my fingers in my ears, I couldn’t drown them out. The volume he used on this small, gentle woman made the walls feel paper thin.
I watch her
She’s struggling out the front door, trying to pull her 50-litre red, white and blue-striped plastic bag through the door. One side of her face is sagging. Her mouth has fallen open like she’s not strong enough to hold her lips closed. Saliva runs down her chin, falling on her navy jumper.
“Mum, where are you going?” I beg.
Her eyes are vacant. She’s moving. Rushing. The lights inside are all out.
There are no bruises or marks. There’s no blood. It’s all in the mind. Sometimes the internal wounds he inflicted ran so deep, she couldn’t mouth any words.
“Take me with you,” I cry.
Through heaving breaths and heavy slurs, a weak straining, “I can’t.”
“But where are you going?”
“To the train station. I can’t come back here.”
I search for myself in her eyes. In the darkness, there are reflections of street lights. But where am I? I stand in her way, pleading. We could run away together. We could be free of this menace. We could disappear and never have to breathe another minute in his presence.
She never makes it to the train station. The cheap plastic bag breaks before she puts it in the car. A gaping slit up the side, one of the straps falling off. They were just cheap and paper thin.
Did I mention I was afraid to lose her?
Sometimes I would see movies flashing in my mind, scenarios of how I was going to lose her. They would be different. Sometimes a car accident. She would fall asleep on her way home from night shift, disappear off the road and the tiny flicker would fade in the silence of the night.
Or it would be cancer and I would be sitting in the hospital, holding her hand, begging God not to take her from me.
Or it would be him. He always threatened he would do it. Sometimes when she didn’t answer my phone calls or texts, I would see her face down on the living room floor. The place where she was meant to live, but died.
I would try to snap myself out of those thoughts. They would rattle me into such a panic. The worst part was that they all felt so probable. The risks were all there. The chances were just waiting to happen.
I heard over and over again that we were a normal family, we have normal problems. It turns out the difference was because we believed in God, it somehow meant we were supposed to act as if the abuse wasn’t real, the predators were just having a bad day and we were in the wrong for even mentioning the harm, because we were being judgemental.
Essentially, the arson needed rescuing. All the while, we were trapped in the house that was burning down.
As a five-year-old girl, the messages I received were, “We don’t speak about what happened”, “no-one is coming to help us” and “this is what good Christians do”.
So while the anger was seething in my little chest, my mouth remained tightly closed, for fear that asking for help, calling the police or telling a neighbour would somehow incur God’s displeasure.
Growing up in a household where abuse was as regular as mealtimes and as unpredictable as the weather, created two things within me: Anger and silence. Topics like forgiveness, peace and love were thrown around willy nilly, given strange and toxic definitions, and eventually used as weapons against the victims who tried to seek justice.
After 30 years of being in a family that refused to see reality, even when it was literally punching them in the face, it came time for me to disengage.
The saddest part was I didn’t want to
I had done everything I could. Years of trying, pleading, reporting and even relocating hadn’t solved the safety issues for Mum and I.
The one who was leeching the life out of her and me was the only one she saw. The only one she listened to. The only one who could convince her of anything and everything.
I was just a disruptor, a disturber of the cycles. I made them uncomfortable when I presented the facts of our situation. Surely it couldn’t be as bad as I had shared. Maybe it was just in my imagination. Maybe I shouldn’t be speaking with outsiders who don’t understand our family. Maybe police, psychologists, counsellors and other concerned friends had it all wrong. After all, we knew our family best.
Today, I’ve lost my mum
It’s been almost two years of no contact. She doesn’t know where I live, because there’s no trust. There’s no café dates, no Christmas parties, no Mother’s Day celebrations. Just silence. Wishing. Hoping.
Every day is heartbreaking. The pain is still real and deep, but it has become more manageable. Sometimes I check in to see if anything has changed and I’m crushed every time.
Sometimes I see her reflection when I look in the mirror. A flicker of her eyes or her smile. I’m just left with a reflection.
When people show you their real colours, you’d better believe them the first time. Otherwise, by the time they do it the 50th time, you probably won’t even notice anymore. The cycle of manipulation, coercion, gaslighting and fear tactics will keep you locked in if you don’t fight tooth-and-nail to change your mind.
Unfortunately, my mum isn’t fighting tooth-and-nail to heal her mind from these cycles; she’s actively seeking them out. All with the intent to “save”, “rescue” and bring home the “prodigal”.
I’m living in the wake of the funeral that never was. I’m grieving the dead that still lives. I’m begging God for resurrection over graves that lie empty.
The moments that were ours are even now being stolen away, and the breath that lies between now and the great hereafter is only paper thin.
Editor’s note
Setting boundaries with unsafe people is often essential for protecting your mental health and emotional wellbeing, especially in unhealthy relationships where poor boundaries have existed for a long time.
Many people grow up without being taught personal boundaries, particularly in unsafe family dynamics involving family members, a parent or a romantic partner who repeatedly ignores limits around time, personal space, emotions or basic respect. In these environments, boundary violations can become so normalised that they are difficult to recognise.
Boundary issues may appear subtly at first, such as being expected to always be available, being pressured to prioritise someone else’s needs, tolerating disrespect or feeling responsible for another person’s emotional reactions. Over time, this erosion of boundaries can seriously impact mental health, self-worth and a person’s sense of safety.
In situations involving coercion, manipulation, emotional abuse, stalking, threats, physical, emotional, financial, sexual or religious abuse, strict boundaries, including no contact, may be necessary due to severe safety risks. Ongoing exposure to a toxic person can continue to cause harm, re-traumatisation and escalation of abusive behaviour. This is particularly true in cases involving controlling partners, unsafe intimate relationships or family members who repeatedly violate physical boundaries, sexual boundaries or emotional limits.
No-contact boundaries are not about cruelty or punishment; they are a protective measure when clear communication has failed, when patterns of harm continue or when maintaining contact puts a person or their child at risk.
Your safety and mental wellbeing are always the priority, even above reconciliation. Healthy boundaries may be the most painful thing you’ve ever had to learn, but they are worth it if you want to break the cycle of harm and abuse in your family, helping prevent it for the generations after you.
Learning boundary setting is about reclaiming autonomy and creating a life for yourself that supports safety, dignity and flourishing wellbeing. Boundaries allow space for recovery, stability and the rebuilding of trust in oneself. Ultimately, choosing safety through strong boundaries is not an act of rejection; it is an act of self-protection and care.
Healthy emotional boundaries are just that: Healthy.
If you or someone you know has or is experiencing abuse, there is help available. Seeking recovery help with a clinical psychologist, doing the important work of telling the full truth about your situation and creating effective boundaries are crucial to your healing journey. You can get your life back.
Read next: Are you experiencing coercive control?
* Names and identifying details have been changed.
Paper thin: A real-life story about boundaries
