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“[…] I have tried everything: therapy, school intervention, parenting strategies from every corner of the internet, gentle parenting, tough love, smothering him with affection, strict boundaries, reward systems.
“Every time he crossed a line, I forgave him. Over and over. Told him we could start fresh, leave the past behind. But the truth is: I hate this demon I gave birth to…”
The following Letter to the Editor was submitted to Wired868 anonymously by a frustrated mother, who admitted to having an extremely dysfunctional relationship with her son:
I just need to get this off my chest. I despise my own child.
He’s 14 now, and I’ve reached a level of emotional and physical exhaustion I never thought possible. A while back, I had a plan to set him up with safe housing, some kind of stable arrangement, and then disappear from his life indefinitely. That plan collapsed.
Then one day, I had to call the police. My own child physically attacked me. And I stood there, hands shaking, unable to fight back—not because I couldn’t, but because if I hurt him, even in self-defense, I knew I’d be branded the abuser.
No one would’ve cared about my side of the story. The system doesn’t protect parents like me.
I have tried everything: therapy, school intervention, parenting strategies from every corner of the internet, gentle parenting, tough love, smothering him with affection, strict boundaries, reward systems.
Every time he crossed a line, I forgave him. Over and over. Told him we could start fresh, leave the past behind.
But the truth is: I hate this demon I gave birth to.
And yes, I’ve heard the whispers from people who are genuinely afraid he might hurt me badly one day. Honestly? I think they’re right. It feels inevitable.
(via Shutterstock.)
One time, he poured detergent in his mouth and threatened to kill himself. I looked him dead in the eye and said: “Do what you feel is best for you. Will I be sad? Yes. But life will go on.”
Then I walked away. Because I knew it was a manipulation tactic. Sure enough, he ran to the sink, spit it out, rinsed his mouth. It was a show.
I regret not having an abortion when I had the chance. I regret ever meeting his father, a worthless deadbeat who left me to drown alone in this mess. Not every child is a blessing. Some are a lifelong curse.
And just so we’re clear, when he turns 18, I’m done. I’ll send money if I have to, but there will be no more pretending. No more fake smiles. No more hope. Just silence.
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