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As far as I can tell, the number one regret for people posting here is that we didn't get our eyes open earlier and start standing up for ourselves. That isn't our fault; humans are hard-wired to believe parents know best and that safety lies in family support.

But I have lots of secondary regrets for the things I didn't say. I'll start with Christmas 1983, when Mother took me aside (of course) to tell me she wished I hadn't come, because "you always cause so much trouble".

My response: I was gobsmacked, said nothing, went through the motions knowing this was my last FOO Christmas. It was dismal.

What I wish I'd done: Got her to say it again, or repeated it myself, in front of my father, my sister and brother, and asked for their response. Did they all want me out of their lives?

Possible results: Mother had to stop being covert and expose herself.
The others agreed with her and I got out a whole lot faster than I actually did, with everyone being clear on why.
The others did not all agree and I found out who my allies were.

I'm self-medicating with alcohol as I write this, but I would welcome any action-replays by anyone who would find it helpful.

[1.]

Mother's callous disregard for my emotional needs made me more vulnerable to further trauma because I was (and to some extent still am) either unable to detect dangerous situations or unable to protect myself if I do. Examples:

1. At 15 I went to visit a school friend. When I was walking back -- a long walk on a hot day -- a man stopped and offered me a lift. I got in, and didn't make a murmur when he drove straight past the end of my street. I was stuck with him in his car for several hours. At one point he stopped for gas. Naturally I thought of getting out and approaching an attendant, but I didn't. I thought my father would have to come and pick me up, a couple of hours' drive each way, and I'd never hear the end of it. (Would he even have come?) Not getting out was a message to the abductor that I had no one to call.

I was lucky he didn't rape and/or kill me. When he finally dropped me home, there were stiff lips all round because I'd missed lunch without letting Mother know, and was late for dinner. I didn't tell them what had happened. They had not called my friend's house.

Only recently did it occur to me that if I'd got out and told someone I'd been abducted, the police would have been called, the man questioned (at least) and I would have been taken home.

2. A few years later I was not so 'lucky'. A workmate and her fiance called in to invite me to a party nearby. I didn't want to go, but Mother (bless her kindly heart) came to the door and insisted I get changed and go. An hour or so into the party, my friend and her man had a fight and left. The man of the house said he would drive me home. I told him I was fine, I could walk it in 10 minutes. He headed me off at his front door, grabbed my arm and said menacingly: "I said I would drive you home." I got in his car, he went straight to an out-of-the-way place and spent the next few hours hitting and raping me before dropping me off outside my parents' home.

Had I not been instinct-injured I would have shaken his arm off and yelled: "Get your hands off me!" If he'd followed me out, I would have screamed at him until he backed off. I've seen lots of literature about how rapists choose their targets; they pick up cues to take a girl who's unlikely to fight back.

I could go on with more examples, most of them either in intimate relationships (first husband used me as a punchbag) or the workplace, but I've just triggered myself. 

I can't tell you how angry I am at the so-called mother who set me up to be a victim everywhere I go. The result is I'm scared of everyone and everything... and distraught that my life is so empty.

[WRONG]

When I was at university I signed up for Human Development Across The Lifespan, a psychology subject. The text book was the first warning that it would be entirely focused on when things go right.  Four weeks into the semester I bailed out, unable to stomach any more about the interactions between mother and infant and how they bring about each completed developmental stage.  The enthusiastic lecturer, herself a mother, told us plenty of personal anecdotes about her children and encouraged other mothers in the lecture room to do the same. I sat there stewing and isolated in a space of empty chairs, alone again.

It wasn't the first time I'd thought about the motherhood myth that says all mothers love their children. It persists despite the worst cases of abuse occasionally making headlines, when a child has actually been battered to death. If that's the case, the word 'love' has no meaning.

In a tutorial where we were required to sit in pairs and answer certain questions, my 'buddy' patted my knee and said: "I'm sure your mother loved you." Afterwards I was furious. I should have said "I didn't realise you'd met", or, acidly, "are you intending to be some kind of counsellor or social worker?" Of course I said no such thing. Just went away with my stomach in knots, once again full of fury. Small wonder I isolate myself!

The myth has withstood centuries of infanticide and we who aren't actually killed are still the hidden ones, shut down virtually every time we try to speak. It persists because it's what the majority want to believe, and it reaches a crescendo each year on Mother's Day.

Mothering is the hardest job in the world, and I'm aware that many OOTS members are themselves in that role. But small wonder we approach each new therapist in fear of hearing we made too much of it, or we must have earned it, or all mothers have good days and bad days. Of course your mother loved you.

I've been in pain all my life over my relationship with my mother. In that time I've told very few people "my mother didn't love me". But it's worse than that.  I can think up dozens of incidents that show she actively disliked (hated?) me and got a kick out of inflicting emotional pain. She didn't have 'bad days' where my siblings were concerned. She encouraged them to treat me the way she did. My father followed her lead; he was at work five days a week. Her word was law. Candid, the bad one. Candid, the troublemaker. Candid who can never do anything right, Candid the sullen teenager. Candid who's off with any boy who asked her out, and we can all guess what she's up to, can't we?

Biggest regret? Most potent reason to beat myself over the head? It took me decades to wake up. I just wanted my mother to love me, and I didn't give up hope until a couple of years ago when the last of my siblings turned her back. I hadn't seen either of my parents for more than 20 years, and my dear old dad had died in the meantime. I knew I wouldn't be able to see him without her.

So no one contacts me any more. I'm too much trouble, and I let the two cousins with whom I have occasional contact treat me accordingly. My husband pushes me to keep in touch with them and I have no interest in clearing my name.

The Motherhood Myth is WRONG. Not all mothers love their children. All infants love their mothers -- it's that or die -- and in Human Development Across The Lifespan, that love changes and deepens from dependency to caring for the old girl in her declining years, a neat role reversal built on love.

But who am I to be writing about love? I've never felt loved. I know my husband loves me but it's an intellectual knowing, not visceral. And tbh, I stay only because I have nowhere else to go.  I didn't pass the developmental stages and I function about as well as a three-year-old, not driving, not cooking, unable now to work, avoiding people... Oh, the shame of my whole life!

I am a 61-year-old woman and was the scapegoat in a sibship of four. I stopped seeing my parents in my 30s and have since been ostracised by my siblings as well as being regarded with suspicion by extended family members. I was diagnosed with C-PTSD in 2012 and have since realised I tick all the boxes for borderline personality disorder. I have only one good friend who I can't see as often as I would like. Relationship is my number one problem.

I am flooded with memories of horrible things (abduction, rape, a violent husband to list the worst) that would not have happened if I'd had a supportive family. I keep remembering things my mother said to me that took away any confidence I might have had, how she sneered whenever anything went wrong for me as well as when things went well. She must really have hated me. At the same time I feel the lack of a family and wish I had been accepted by mine.

It's hard to keep going but what's the alternative? I've seen dozens of therapists and a few have been understanding but sooner or later we always reach a point where either they or I give up. I don't even want to talk about my stuff any more. The best time of the day is when I go to bed; I often have what I think of as compensatory dreams -- feeling good among nice people -- and the worst time of the day is when I wake up and wonder how the * I will fill the day ahead. Nothing seems worth the bother of doing, including housework, shopping and cooking.

The thought of trudging on for another 20 years or so is horrific. I don't see any good ahead. BTW I am taking Paroxetine for depression but it doesn't seem to make any difference.

I signed up ages ago and have been just reading until now. I hope this post isn't too long. Thanks for reading.