My childhood was perfectly normal.

My mother loved me very, very much. She often told me how she nearly died bringing me into the world. The doctor said not to have another child. But she loved me so much she risked her life so I could have a sibling. Little Sib: so precious, to be cherished and nurtured with all my ability. I had to look after Little Sib. I vividly remember the time Little Sib fell when we were out playing. I should have prevented that. I should have been watching Little Sib, not selfishly having fun like most young kids. I wasn’t most young kids. I had failed my mother and deserved the punishment that followed.

I was an ugly, tiresome, and difficult child. But my mother loved me. If I needed clothes, shoes, the doctor or dentist, she would undertake the tedious task however inconvenient. However much it grated on her nerves she would pop a Valium when she’d finished raging at the injustice and do the horrible chore. Because she loved me that much. And I loved her, so I tried my hardest not to need things; especially not at times when her nerves were bad.

She tried to keep her nerves in check; it could be hard to tell if she was going to erupt. I found it best to keep quiet as much as possible, to be aware of her every move and facial expression. If she was happy I tried to keep her that way, and would put on my happy face. If she was sad, I would comfort her. It was generally safe to feel the same emotion she was feeling. Except anger. Especially not anger at her. Even if I thought she’d been unfair when she shouted at me or punished me, I probably deserved it. A mother needs the patience of a saint to put up with young children.

And Father? He was at work, or busy. Child-rearing was the mother’s job. Mother said he hadn’t wanted children and certainly not a girl. So best to let her intercede. She would tell me what he expected of me and whether I was living up to it. Occasionally he would spend time with me; it was OK if Mother had sanctioned it. I remember a day Mother didn’t. Her nerves were bad; she had lost her temper with him and stormed upstairs to cry. Normally I would have followed to comfort her but there was a problem. Little Sib was in the playpen downstairs. I would get in trouble if anything happened. He might read his paper and not watch Little Sib properly. I agonised over what to do; best stay near Little Sib. Father was in an unusually good mood. He chatted to me and then we played a really fun game. I was laughing with enjoyment and didn’t hear Mother coming. Her shadow edged into my peripheral vision and I looked up into her face, mid-giggle.

“Traitor,” she hissed. But she eventually forgave me, because she loved me so much.

The family had to move around a lot because of Father’s job. I was to be sent to boarding school for secondary education. For several months before I left Mother wept about how awful it would be for me to be away, but even more awful for her. I must get top marks in all my exams so I could get a good job and not be a housewife stuck with the drudgery of raising children. Boarding school would give me my best chance. She would put her aspirations for my future above her own wish for me to stay with her. Loving mothers make sacrifices for their children.

Boarding school was as awful as I had expected. I didn’t know how to relate to the other children. They would chat happily about their home lives, their families, their likes and dislikes. They were allowed to choose their own clothes and wear what was in fashion. I wasn’t allowed to talk about my family or anything personal. Other people could not be trusted: only family. Mother had drummed that into me. As far as outsiders were concerned, everything was always to be good. I realised, too, that it was best to tell my parents everything was good at school. Mother was making such a sacrifice; it simply wasn’t fair to upset her further with worries about me. My job was to keep my head down and get good grades. So that’s what I did. In the early months the other children would tease me for being different, but I was good at hiding how much it hurt. Anticipating Mother’s moods and trying to steer her to a safer course if a meltdown was on the horizon meant I was used to being on full alert to every nuance of others’ behaviour while keeping my own demeanour neutral. The bullies quickly got bored and left me alone.

The school holidays were fun. I was becoming old enough to be a proper friend to Mother and she confided in me a lot. She was not happy in her marriage and lots of men showed interest in her, which she sometimes reciprocated. We had lots of giggly conversations when Father was safely out of the way. She told me how a woman should behave, dress and look to be sexy and catch a man. It would be a while yet before I could do such a thing as I was an ugly duckling. And a fat one, to boot. She gave instructions to the school to monitor my weight and control my food intake. But she didn’t want to ruin our holiday time with boring old diets so at least I could have treats then.

Eventually I blossomed and got boyfriends. She would flirt with them so I could see how it was done and perfect my technique. In return I was expected to be charming to her elderly lovers; they were boring but also rich, so she wanted to keep them sweet. We would gossip and giggle, hatching plans for how we could get them to buy things she wanted. She was the queen, of course, but I was becoming a worthy princess; a sparkling mirror to reflect her glory back to her.

I flew the nest when I was ready. Mother hadn’t told me I was ready, but I had fallen in love. The family didn’t approve of my husband; I was cast out. Turns out they were right about him. When we divorced, they let me back into the family. Mother visited often; it was a good cover for seeing her latest boyfriend. I married again. Fortunately, husband number two was kind and supportive.

I’d like to say it was happy ever after, but in truth my life has been unfulfilling at best and downright unhappy at worst. Much potential has been wasted. My studies and career were chosen because my parents approved and I could get decent results. Whether I enjoyed it was immaterial. Actually, I had no idea what I enjoyed. In the words of that song; “I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me.”

My therapist reassures me my reactions and feelings are completely understandable. As a child I had no choice but to appease my mother. I developed some awesome coping mechanisms. I was damn good at what I did. Squashing my emotions? Yep. Able to read those of others? Sure. Appeasing angry people? Gotta be done. Liking what others like, to make sure they stay happy? Easy. Mentally removing myself from things I couldn’t handle or escape? A cinch. Trusting others? No way. Trusting myself? How?

I wanted children, and, boy, did Mother want grandchildren. She had put up with the ghastliness of raising her own children and she wanted payback. She wanted the fun stuff with none of the responsibility. I did not dare to have them. Some instinct told me all was not right with me. I did not want to be like my mother, but I didn’t know how to be otherwise. I couldn’t trust myself to nurture children. I didn’t think I was strong enough to protect them from her, and it was this thought that finally made me wonder whether some of the problem may lie with her. If she was so loving, why was I so sure that any children of mine would need protection from her?

It took me until my mid-forties to even start protecting myself. Now I have finally accepted that I deserve to be me. And to realise I need help with that.

Why did it take so long? Because my childhood was perfectly normal. As far as I knew.