Looking in the mirror I don’t recognise the person I’ve become. This relationship is not what I thought, but there were tell-tale signs all along. As a dormant instinct casts a new light, ominous shadows creep into view and I realise abuse doesn’t always look like violence, sometimes it’s dressed up as care.

The isolation started quietly. 

At first it was practical, necessary even. I stopped seeing friends because my days were mapped out for me already. I stopped talking honestly because people just didn’t understand, and I found the constant explaining exhausting. Soon, most of my meaningful contact is with them and only them.

It seems isolation doesn’t always come with locked doors sometimes it is a life stripped of the margins a person needs.

Before long, their way, is the only way. 

I’m told exactly how to do things and corrected when I don’t comply. Feeling silly, I berate myself that I should have known better. So, I listen more carefully, determined to get it right.

“Do this. No like that.”

Watched.

Assessed.

Measured.

Then finances become a tool of control.

Support is framed as generosity.

“You’re lucky to get this,” smiling pursed lips report. But money is conditional, short-term and constantly reviewed.

“Do you really need this? Can you prove it?”

Again, and again and again.
And before long fear becomes my bedfellow as speaking up comes at a cost.
What if something is taken away?

For years I didn’t see it as gaslighting.

Such a harsh and over used word but the undermining came in so many forms. When I describe exhaustion, I’m fobbed off with ‘It’s just part of parenting.’
When I describe harm, it’s passed off as miscommunication.
When I describe trauma, the offer of support groups aims to create more resilience. Increase my capacity and tolerance to absorb the abuse not change the behaviour of my abuser.

‘I’m asked if, I’m sure.
Maybe I’m too emotional.
I must have misunderstood.’

I wonder if I’m going mad and start keeping notes.

Screenshots.

Evidence.

Convinced the truth only survives with proof as options are dressed as veiled threats.

“You can ask for more support…” a pause, “but it’s possible they’ll reduce what you already have.”

At every turn I’m reminded of risk, thresholds and consequences. Nothing explicit is spoken but fear does the work as I learn that asking for help is dangerous. Advocacy comes with a cost and sometimes silence is safer than honesty.

The blame is baked in. 

Subtly and consistently messaging is laced with, “Did you do it properly? Were you consistent at home?”

But then breaking through the cloud like a warm and welcome sun, moments of intense praise feel intoxicating, validating, a relief from the slog.

“You are such an incredible parent!”

“We don’t know how you do it.”

But the cloak of praise hides a toxicity of consequence when I raise concerns.

I’m reminded, “This is evidence-based.” Any creativity which leads to adaptation to suit my child is framed as ‘non-compliant’. When the barriers are too great or my capacity weans and the expectation to high, I’m non-engaged.

I see it now. 

The instinct I once had was locked away, shrunk in the face of evidence-based practice and professionals who know better. With time, I learned which words unlock resources and which ones closed doors. Financial precarity kept me treading the ‘good parent’ path. Compliant and somehow, made to feel oh so grateful.

As a parent of a disabled child, well meaning, hardworking practitioners working in siloed, uncoordinated and under resourced services can make me feel inadequate despite the fact I’m doing the work of ten professionals without rest, pay, or recognition.

Forced vulnerability is the definition of trauma.

An unequal, controlling, fear-based relationship where survival is dependent on compliance is abuse. No single professional intends harm, they are compassionate, caring and dedicated. But systems don’t need intent to be abusive, to be the source of repeated paper cuts of trauma. The system of health, social care and SEN have normalised coercion and trauma in delivering care.

Just like in any abusive relationship, the first step toward changing the experience is to recognise the pattern and label the behaviour. Fundamentally, services, professionals and systems must listen, learn and believe the marginalised voices of those living inside it – us parent carers.