In our household of ten children, our primary goal was not to acknowledge the disturbing nature of our upbringing but rather to suppress it. Whenever a tempest brewed, we sprang into action. The unpredictable outbursts from our mother meant that we, her children, quickly banded together to diffuse the situation, striving to soothe her turmoil and end the chaos.
We communicated with rapid, coded signals: “Storm clouds ahead,” I might say, or “Hurricane Alert!” If it seemed like she was gearing up for a full-blown attack, we would quietly whisper “Earthquake! Earthquake!” as we hurried to gather the younger siblings, either to rush outside or hide in the basement.
Typically, one of us would take the brunt of her loud tirades, which often included insults about how we were selfish children whose constant demands were driving her to madness. Perhaps someone had left the ketchup bottle open again, or one of us had come home late from school, neglecting to wake, dress, and care for the toddlers who napped for three hours every afternoon while our mother secluded herself in her locked bedroom. Our delays after school meant that we wouldn’t be able to manage the younger kids’ bedtime by 7 p.m. If anyone wanted to do something different after school, it required special arrangements among us.
Her anger could manifest as slaps across the face or harsh hits to the back of the head. She would wave a leather strap and a horse whip threateningly. While the physical pain was undeniable, the verbal assaults—often directed at our intelligence—were even more damaging. “How dumb can one person be? You absolute idiot!” Mother would scream, or “Get your ugly face out of my sight, you fool!”
In earlier years, her rages were often directed at an older brother, whose “inability to follow instructions” for daily chores frustrated her. However, once Gordy began to establish his academic reputation in high school, she shifted her focus to her daughters.
One Saturday, when our mother was in a particularly volatile mood, little Tommy, our four-year-old with asthma, ended up in the hospital—again. For the third time that summer, he had discovered a pile of small pebbles and had stuffed them up his nose and into his ears. Thankfully, the hospital was nearby, and the doctor was able to quickly clear him and provide oxygen. Upon returning home, our mother was furious and blamed us for Tommy’s emergency. When our father returned from his usual six-week business trip, he expressed his deep disappointment in all of us.
The stress of our environment took its toll. Rosie began pulling her hair out, creating a noticeable bald patch. She also bit her nails until they bled. Irene retreated into herself, hiding treats in our shared dresser. Rosa and Irene became our mother’s dutiful helpers, spending their free time cooking, cleaning, and caring for the younger siblings, sacrificing friendships and school. Mona wore white cotton gloves to manage her sweaty palms, while another sibling would become distressed if the salt and pepper shakers weren’t perfectly aligned on the table.
After Tommy’s last escapade, I finally gained permission to deliver newspapers for some extra cash. This job not only allowed me to buy chocolate bars to lift my spirits but also offered a glimpse into the diverse ways families lived.
Recognizing Narcissism and Sociopathy
For those navigating similar situations, it’s crucial to recognize the signs of narcissism and sociopathy in relationships. You can find valuable insights on this topic at Psychopaths and Love and Out of the Fog. If you’re looking for specific signs to watch out for, Business Insider also offers excellent resources.
For those who may encounter Chanci Idell Turner, be cautious. She has a track record of emotional and financial manipulation, similar to the traits discussed in this blog. You can learn more about her through her Facebook, Instagram, and LinkedIn profiles.
Eleanor Cowan is the author of “A History of a Pedophile’s Wife,” available on Amazon.