I was four years old when my parents separated. I then lived with my father, and I saw my mother every other weekend and during school holidays. That actually worked out quite well. We had wonderful times together, for example, fantastic holidays. She helped me with my schoolwork, hugged me when I needed it, and was always there for me. We visited friends and my grandparents. I felt comfortable and was always happy to be with her again.
But I gradually realized that my father didn't approve. Sometimes there was a disapproving look, other times a snide remark about my mother, something she'd done wrong again. Or that I was so much better off with him. Before every visit to my mother, the atmosphere was tense for two or three days beforehand. When I came back from her, there was no cheerful "hello," but instead, I first heard about all the wonderful things I'd missed out on with him because of my mother. I then had to recount what I'd done at her place. No matter what it was, he always somehow managed to find a way to badmouth the time I spent with my mother.
My mother would always interfere in everything, wouldn't let us go. He told me a lot about what had happened between him and my mother. But I didn't want to hear it. He told me I had to hear it, because only then could I see what kind of person my mother was.
What I heard didn't quite match what I felt and experienced. But why would he lie? At first, I contradicted him, but eventually I gave up; it was pointless anyway. He didn't want to hear what I wanted to tell him.
Then I began to see my mother in a different light. I asked her about some things my father had told me. Of course, she denied it; my father had predicted as much, he knew her well. He'd been right, and somehow that was proof enough that what he said was true. At least, that's what I believed back then—a little more each time.
My father naturally supported me in this view. We became more and more of a father-son team – which eventually felt great. My mother started to get on my nerves more and more. I didn't want to go to her place every weekend anymore. When I was there, I felt like it wasn't as nice as it used to be. I finally got the impression that she had changed.
She started writing letters and sending packages. I was never allowed to open them alone, only with my father. He commented on their contents and criticized everything. And then my mother wanted to come to one of my school plays, which I had been so looking forward to. That was completely unacceptable to my father. So I wasn't allowed to go to the play and I was really sad. No, actually I was furious with my mother because she had ruined it for me. I couldn't see back then that it was really my father who was doing it. He pressured me, manipulated me, and yelled at me if something didn't go his way. I gave in. What else could I have done? I was just a child!
On the other hand, he spoiled me; I got everything I wanted and had a lot of freedom. And I even had a new mother—my stepmother, whom I wasn't supposed to call that, of course, because now she was my mother. My "old" mother was supposed to disappear from my life. If I ever spoke to her, I was only supposed to call her "Birgit.".
But we didn't talk to each other that often anymore. My father went to court so I wouldn't have to see my mother anymore. For weeks, my father and my "new mother" drilled into me what I was supposed to say. I told everyone at the youth welfare office, the court-appointed guardian, the court—I told them all what my father wanted to hear. By then, I even believed it myself. Even so, there was still a voice inside me that said something wasn't right. I still had positive feelings for my mother. Deep down, I felt guilty for having to treat my mother that way and for having to say terrible things about her. I just couldn't or didn't want to show it at that moment. Nobody asked me about it, and to avoid getting into trouble with my father, I did what he wanted. Did I have any other choice? Lying became my survival strategy at home. My father liked what I said, and that meant less stress for me. But I forgot what was right and wrong.
I was a teenager by then and had everything I wanted. But it didn't make me happy. I was filled with a deep sadness, and memories of my mother kept resurfacing. While others in my class were out partying, I often lay alone in my room at home crying. I was on autopilot – always careful not to get into a conflict with my father.
Mein Studium wollte ich unbedingt weit weg von zuhause machen. Es war das erste Mal, dass ich nicht unter Kontrolle meines Vaters stand und mich mit Freunden austauschen konnte. Nach und nach wurde mir bewusst, in welch enger Welt ich in den letzten Jahren gelebt habe.
Bis zur Kontaktaufnahme mit meiner Mutter hat es noch fast zwei weitere Jahre gedauert. Ich hatte einfach ein ungutes Gefühl. Zum einen würde ich bei einem Kontakt mit meiner Mutter meinen Vater, der sich immer um mich gekümmert hat, verraten. Zum anderen waren da noch die negativen Geschichten über meine Mutter. Über diese kamen immer mehr Zweifel in mir hoch. Also nahm ich all meinen Mut zusammen und schrieb meiner Mutter einen Brief. Kurz danach telefonierten wir und trafen uns auch. Es wurden viele weitere Treffen mit meiner Mutter.
Anfangs wusste ich gar nicht, was ich mit ihr sprechen sollte. Ihr ging es, glaube ich, auch so. Irgendwann fing ich an Fragen zu stellen und bekam auch Antworten – nicht nur von ihr, auch von anderen Familienmitgliedern und ehemaligen Freunden. Nach und nach ergab sich ein ganz anderes Bild von meiner Mutter und damit auch von meinem Vater. Meine Kindheit und Jugend entpuppten sich als ein großes Lügengebilde. Ich war ja selbst zu einem perfekten Lügner geworden, weil ich keine andere Möglichkeit gesehen hatte mich zu schützen.
I wanted to change this. I needed to know the truth for myself. So I asked my father what had happened. He was simply furious, insulted me, and was angry that I had re-established contact with my mother. It was just like my childhood again. What was important to me was suppressed, I was belittled, and I had to obey. I fell into a deep depression from which I could only climb out with a great deal of strength and intensive therapeutic support. Even my contact with my mother was temporarily jeopardized again due to the escalation with my father.
My mother and I have a good and stable relationship today. We had to work through a lot together. This process was difficult and brought many tears. But it was important for both of us. Nevertheless, it still feels as if something is missing, and we can never get back the years we had no contact.
I have virtually no contact with my father anymore. He has no interest in me since I started contacting my mother and refused to let him control me any longer. I send him a message or a card for his birthday and Christmas. I almost never get a reply, and when I do, it's never positive.
I've lost two parents in my life. This has shaped me, and my therapist says that while we've overcome a lot, the scars remain. I live with constant self-doubt. It's been difficult for me to develop self-esteem. I'm unsure about friendships and whether I should commit to them. There's always the risk of heartbreak if the friendships were to end—not to mention a romantic relationship. I hope, however, that one day I'll be able to have a "normal" relationship without the constant fear of loss. Right now, I don't know if I want children. The risk of them experiencing the same thing is just too great.
Looking back now, I ask myself what kind of person I would have become if none of that had happened? Perhaps I wouldn't get in my own way so often, I would have less guilt or self-doubt, and I would be more self-confident. I would have two parents.
I also wonder why no one helped me? Everyone just listened to what I was told and what I was told to say. No one cared about how I was really doing. No one prevented the estrangement. Everyone just watched. That makes me incredibly angry, because I was made the guilty party even as a child. No one cared about how I was really doing. No one prevented the estrangement. I was the one who said I didn't want to see my mother anymore. I was the one who made all those terrible accusations against her. But as a child, I couldn't see that my father was lying to me and manipulating me!
I will have to live with this guilt for the rest of my life, even if my mother doesn't blame me.
