Picture this: it’s a crisp spring day, and my mother hands me over to my aunt — a woman so emotionally distant that hugging her would feel like embracing a lamppost. The house smells like boiled cabbage, cats, and broken dreams, the first thing she tells me being, “Don’t touch anything, and don’t cry. Crying is for people who have options.” At two years old, I wasn’t sure what options I was supposed to have, but I instinctively knew this wasn’t going to be the nurturing home my kindergarten classmates were probably enjoying.
My aunt’s idea of affection was putting me in a corner with a toy that looked like it hadn’t been played with since World War II. I had some Barbies to keep me company, but they weren’t much of a substitute for love. This was my life for the next two or three years, while my mother — who, by the way, never offered a real explanation for her absence — was out doing what many cold-hearted Hungarian women did in the early ’90s.
I like to imagine her sipping black coffee, chain-smoking, and concocting ways to ruin my or anyone’s future — but that’s probably giving her too much credit.
Two years passed in a blur of neglect and an increasingly disturbing fascination with dust particles (I was easily entertained). Then one day, out of nowhere, she returned — like some malevolent Santa Claus. No apology, no explanation. Just, “Time to go,” as if she had left me at the dry cleaners, not with a woman who believed in corporal punishment as a legitimate form of babysitting. I didn’t ask questions. I just went. After all, I was four years old, and by then I’d learned that when someone tells you to go, you go.
The next few years were a fever dream of unpredictable chaos. I knew something was off early on — like the time she forgot to pick me up from school for three days straight, and my teachers finally decided to call someone. For the most part, I existed in a strange limbo, somewhere between emotional abuse and whatever passed for normal in our house. It was like living with a storm cloud that occasionally remembered it had a child.
When I was six, she met my little brothers’ father, and then, without warning, she sent me to a psychiatric institution.
Yes, a psychiatric institution. In Austria. Just for a little “vacation.” Being six years old and institutionalized in a foreign country wasn’t exactly the Disneyland vacation most kids dream of. It was more like being shipped off to a dystopian summer camp where everyone wore white coats, children committed suicide, and stared at you like you were a particularly interesting science experiment.
At that time, I didn’t speak a word of German, which made everything even weirder. The doctors spoke to me in a language I didn’t understand, but I got the gist of their condescending smiles and slow, deliberate speech. Even at six, I knew when people were talking down to me. The ward itself was a sterile, colorless building, the kind of place where emotions went to die. Most of the time, I sat in the corner of a gray room, clutching a stuffed rabbit that had seen better days and wondering when — if ever — someone would come get me.
The doctors didn’t seem particularly concerned about ADHD or my emotional state; they were mainly concerned about my stepfather. He was the hero of this part of the story, though that’s a term I use loosely. In a rare stroke of humanity, he decided to pull me out of the psychiatric ward before I became a permanent fixture there, and bring me back to Hungary to my mother.
The fact that he cared enough to save me from a lifetime of being institutionalized probably says more about him than my actual mother.
Back home, things returned to their usual grim routine. I hadn’t learned any life-changing lessons in the psychiatric ward, other than the fact that some adults have too much time on their hands. My mother, ever the unpredictable force of nature, acted like the entire experience had never happened. “What psychiatric ward? You must be confused,” she’d say,
This was how things went until I was nine years old. That’s when my little brother was born, and she sent me to live with a Catholic priest.
Now, I don’t know what kind of image you have in your head when you think of a Catholic priest, but let me tell you something: they’re not all kind, grandfatherly types who dispense wisdom and tell you everything’s going to be okay. No, some of them are just bored old men who’ve decided to trade their personal desires for the mantle of religious authority because it’s easier than dealing with reality.
Father Whatever-His-Name-Was wasn’t a bad guy. In fact, I think he genuinely tried to teach me a thing or two about God and the virtues of forgiveness. But here’s the thing: when you’re nine and have been dropped off at a rectory like an unwanted pet, forgiveness isn’t exactly high on your list of priorities. What I wanted more than anything was to understand why my own mother kept passing me off to random people like a bad hand in poker.
The year I spent with Father Priestman was… strange. He never hurt me, never even raised his voice, but there was something deeply unsettling about the whole arrangement. He didn’t talk much, which was fine because I wasn’t in the mood to chat, but he often looked at me with a kind of distant sadness, like he knew something about me that I didn’t. Or maybe he just pitied me, which, to be honest, I didn’t hate.
It wasn’t until the Youth Welfare Office got involved that things came to a screeching halt. I don’t know if they were tipped off by the priest himself, or if my mother’s long history of abandoning me finally caught up with her, but one day, they showed up, took one look at the situation, and said, “Nope. This isn’t happening.” And just like that, I was plucked from the rectory and delivered back into the care of the woman who had deposited me there in the first place.
You’d think things might have improved after that, but no. In fact, they got worse. Much worse. My mother’s return was marked by a renewed sense of chaos. Gone was the brief, illusionary respite I had experienced under the care of the priest. Now, it was back to the emotional minefield I had come to know too well.
The first time she raised her voice at me after my return, I was taken aback. It was as if I had stepped back into a familiar nightmare, one I had almost forgotten. “What have you been doing?” she shouted, as if my very existence had been a personal affront to her. I stood there, heart racing, unsure of what to say or do. The unpredictability of her rage was suffocating.
Fast forward a couple of years to when I turned sixteen. At this point, I had developed what I like to call “survivor’s cynicism.” It’s a special brand of apathy that comes from being repeatedly disappointed by the people who are supposed to love you. I had mastered the art of dodging my mom’s schemes like a veteran escape artist. But this one? This one was special.
After kicking me out the first time (a classic move, by the way), she decided to hire ex-convicts to track me down. And not just any ex-cons — these guys looked like they’d just staggered off the set of a C-list mob flick. Real professionals. Or at least, they thought they were.
Let me clarify something: she didn’t just hire them to scare me or give me a talking-to. No, this was a full-on beatdown, the kind that leaves you wondering if you’ll ever walk again without wincing.
I remember the glint of a knife, the feeling of cold metal pressed against my skin, and thinking, “Well, this is it. This is how it ends.” But it didn’t. By some miracle, one of the men — a guy whose face I can’t even remember — stepped in before the situation turned fatal. He didn’t explain why. He didn’t apologize. He just stopped the other guy from stabbing me, and that was that. I was left bruised, bloody, and more confused than ever about the woman who had given birth to me.
In the aftermath of the attack, I did what any rational, severely traumatized teenager would do: I tried to kill myself.
Spoiler alert: Xanax and Rivotril? Not a winning combo. They won’t kill you, but they will leave you with a raging headache and the nauseating realization that, yep, you’re still alive. And if you’re lucky, your mom will show up afterward and accuse you of being a junkie for kicks.
Which she did.
After the failed suicide attempt, I finally did what I should have done years ago: I cut ties with my mother. There was no dramatic confrontation, no tearful goodbye. I just… stopped answering her calls. It was easier than I thought it would be. For a few years, I lived in blissful silence, free from her toxic presence, and for a while, I actually believed that maybe — just maybe — I could move on.
But of course, it wasn’t that simple. She popped back into my life in the most predictable way possible: by pretending to care about my brother, M. According to her, his grades were slipping, and he “needed me.” She always knew how to play that card — appealing to my sense of responsibility for the brother I had practically raised myself.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew it was a trap. But what could I do? He was my brother. So, against my better judgment, I went back — not for her, but for M. He was ten at the time — old enough to know better but still young enough to be trapped by her manipulations. And just like that, I got sucked right back into the dysfunctional vortex that had once chewed me up and spit me out.
Living with her again was like entering a time warp. Every interaction felt rehearsed, like we were both actors in a play that had gone on too long. She greeted me with the same scowl I remembered, her disapproval palpable. I could feel the weight of her gaze, measuring me against her impossible standards. “What have you been doing?” she demanded, as if my existence were somehow a personal affront. I had spent years carving out a life for myself, but to her, it was as if I had been doing nothing at all.
For reasons I can’t fully explain — maybe I’m a masochist — I ended up back in her orbit in 2024. Why? Because I’m an idiot, that’s why. The house in Etschberg? A nightmare, starring my mom and her charming new fiancé, Jörg, who had the charisma of a damp sponge and the emotional range of a radiator. It was a dream team designed to suck the joy out of everything within a ten-mile radius.
The mind games began immediately. She would undermine everything I did, from my job to my relationship with M, planting seeds of doubt wherever she could. “You’re not doing real work,” she’d scoff, eyeing my freelance projects with disdain. “You’re just sitting around doing nothing all day. No wonder you can’t hold down a proper job.” It didn’t matter that I was bringing in more money than her “business” could ever hope for; in her eyes, if I wasn’t suffering, I wasn’t really working.
As the months passed, her unpredictability took on a more sinister tone. She began to question my worthiness as a sister and a caretaker. “Are you sure M even loves nor trust you?” she’d ask, her voice laced with malice. “Maybe he’d be better off without you.” I could see M retreating into himself, caught in the crossfire of our toxic dynamic. The thought of losing him, of failing him as I had felt failed in the past, gnawed at my insides.
Her favorite game was questioning my worth. “You are a shit of worth,”“Home office isn’t real work,” she’d say with a sneer. “You’re just sitting around doing nothing all day. No wonder you can’t hold down a proper job.” Never mind that I was freelancing and bringing in more money than her “business” could have ever hoped for. In her eyes, if I wasn’t suffering, I wasn’t really working.
She barely knew her granddaughter, of course. But that didn’t stop her from making wild accusations about her parentage. “Are you sure she’s yours?” she’d ask, her voice dripping with venomous doubt. “You don’t really think she looks like you, do you?” It was a classic move — plant a seed of insecurity and let it fester.
So, yeah. Mother of the Year, ladies and gentlemen.
The more I tried to resist, the harder they pushed. The walls were closing in, and by the time August rolled around, I knew I had to get out — this time for good. M was old enough to make his own decisions, and I couldn’t sacrifice my sanity for his anymore. I wasn’t running because I was scared. I was leaving because I’d had enough. I was done. Done with the manipulation, the lies, the constant emotional battering. I was done with her.
M followed me out the door not long after. He’d been watching everything unfold, silently weighing his options. For all his flaws — and trust me, he had plenty — he was smart enough to know that staying with our mother was a one-way ticket to misery. So, he left too. Together, we walked away from the wreckage of our past, unsure of what the future held but certain that we couldn’t stay in that house a second longer.
But, as I would soon learn, leaving my mother wasn’t as easy as walking out the door.
M, who had been silently watching everything unfold, surprised me by following me out the door. He had been weighing his options, and I could see the realization dawning on his face that staying with our mother would lead to nothing but misery. Together, we both walked away from the wreckage of our past, unsure of what the future held but certain that we couldn’t stay in that house a second longer.
However, the freedom we sought didn’t come without consequences. The threats started almost immediately. First, it was the guilt trips — cryptic texts from her and Jörg claiming she was in the hospital, that she trying killing herself, and that it was all my fault. I could practically hear her voice dripping with insincerity, even through the poorly written messages.
When guilt didn’t work, she escalated to threats. She accused me of brainwashing M, claiming I was turning him against her. The accusations grew increasingly bizarre, spiraling into dark territory that left me rattled. “Maybe I’m not even your real mother,” she declared one day, throwing a wild accusation that felt like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t just her typical manipulation; this was a whole new level of madness.
M and I decided to take a DNA test.
Our decision was born from a mixture of curiosity and desperation, both of us spiraling in response to her escalating attacks. The test felt like our last hope for clarity, but it only deepened the chaos. While waiting for results, our lives became a blur of anxiety, each day a tightrope walk around her impending fury.
So my mother ramped up her campaign of terror. She started threatening not just me but M’s girlfriend as well, sending ominous messages promising to kill her if she ever crossed her path. “I’ll find you,” she wrote in one text. “It doesn’t matter when or where, I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you.” — seriously. She wasn’t just unhappy with his choice of partner; she was full-blown psychotic about it.
We blocked her number after that, but the damage was done. M was rattled. His girlfriend was scared to leave her apartment. I wasn’t sure if my mother was capable of following through on her threats, but the sheer malice in her words was enough to keep us all on edge.
When she realized she could no longer reach M, she turned her attention back to me. She started threatening to call my employer, to spread lies about me, to ruin my career. And here’s the thing: I believed her. She’d done it before, back when I was younger. She had a talent for spinning webs of deceit, for destroying people’s reputations with a few well-placed rumors.
I found myself constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Every email from my boss, every phone call from an unknown number sent my heart racing. I knew she wouldn’t stop until she’d completely torn my life apart, and I had no idea how to protect myself from her next move.
So here I am, writing this, half for catharsis and half as a preemptive alibi in case she actually sends a hitman after me. You never know with her. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s out there right now, drafting her next insane move.
But this time, I’m not just rolling over. The German legal system might move slower than a snail on Xanax, but it’s the last line of defense between me and whatever madness she’s planning next.
The original, detailed version is available on Medium
