Have you ever been bullied by your own mom

 The Poison and the Planned Betrayal

I felt my stomach drop. She got to him first and controlled the whole narrative. I wanted to scream that she hit me, but looking at his face, I knew he wouldn’t believe me, so I nodded and said I’d think about it.

He patted my shoulder and said he knew I’d do the right thing. That night at dinner, Lydia smiled at me across the table. She asked if my dad and I had a nice chat. The look in her eyes told me she knew exactly how it went.

I started documenting everything after that. Every comment she made and every weird look she gave me. I bought a small notebook and kept it hidden in my backpack. I didn’t know what else to do.

The next few weeks were strange. Lydia would be sweet when my dad was around, but cold when we were alone. She’d make little comments about how I should be grateful she didn’t tell him the whole truth about Christmas night.

One morning, I came down for breakfast and found her going through my phone. She looked up casually and said she was just checking if I needed a new case. I grabbed it from her and she laughed like it was funny.

My dad walked in right then and asked what was going on. Lydia said she was helping me pick out phone accessories. He smiled and said that was nice of her.

I started keeping my phone with me at all times after that. I even slept with it under my pillow, but somehow she still found ways to mess with me. I’d come home from school and find things moved in my room.

Nothing major, but enough to let me know she’d been there. My homework would be in different spots or my clothes rearranged in my closet. When I mentioned it to my dad, he said I was probably just forgetful.

He reminded me about the time I lost my car keys for 3 days. Lydia nodded sympathetically and offered to help me get organized. Then the food thing started. Everyone in the family knew about it.

I’ve been allergic to shellfish since I was little. Not deathly allergic, but enough to make me really sick.

One night, Lydia made pasta with what she said was regular marinara sauce. I took a few bites and my mouth started tingling. I recognized the feeling immediately and stopped eating. I asked if there was shellfish in the sauce.

“Of course not,” she looked shocked and said. She said she would never do that, but I knew that tingling feeling. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. Sure enough, my lips were starting to swell.

I took some benadryil from the medicine cabinet and waited for it to kick in. When I came back to the table, Lydia was telling my dad how I barely touched my food. She wondered aloud if I was developing an eating disorder.

My dad looked concerned and asked if everything was okay. I said I wasn’t feeling well and went to my room. Later, I snuck down and checked the trash. I found an empty jar of sauce with shrimp listed in the ingredients.

The next day, I started being more careful. I’d watch her cook and double check labels. Sometimes, I’d say I already ate or make my own food.

Lydia noticed and started making comments about me being difficult. She told my dad I was rejecting her attempts to bond. She said she was trying so hard, but I kept pushing her away.

My dad pulled me aside and asked me to make more effort. He said Lydia was really trying and I should meet her halfway. I wanted to tell him about the shellfish, but I had no proof anymore.

So, I started pretending to eat her food. I’d push it around my plate and take tiny bites of things I knew were safe. Then, I’d sneak down later and make a sandwich, but Lydia caught on.

One night, she stood over me while I ate and watched every bite. She said she worked hard on dinner and wanted to make sure I enjoyed it. I forced myself to eat, even though my stomach churned.

Nothing happened that time, but I stayed on edge, waiting for the tingling to start. A few days later, I woke up feeling awful. My stomach cramped, and I could barely get out of bed. I missed school and spent the day in the bathroom.

Lydia brought me tea and acted concerned.

“There must be a bug going around,” she said.

But when my dad wasn’t looking, she smiled at me in this knowing way. This went on for weeks. I’d feel fine for a few days, then suddenly get sick, always after eating something she made. I started losing weight, and my dad noticed.

He wanted to take me to the doctor, but Lydia suggested we wait and see if it passed. She said it was probably just stress from school. She offered to make me special bland foods to help my stomach.

I knew I needed proof, so I started switching our plates when she wasn’t looking. It was risky, but I had to try something. The first time I did it, nothing happened.

We both ate normally, and I wondered if I was being paranoid. Maybe I really was just stressed. But the second time was different.

I switched our plates while she was getting drinks. Halfway through dinner, she suddenly stopped eating. Her face went pale and she excused herself. I heard her in the bathroom getting sick.

When she came back, she pushed her plate away and said she wasn’t hungry. My dad asked if she was okay, and she said she felt a bit off. I kept switching plates after that. Sometimes nothing happened, but other times she’d get sick.

I documented every incident in my notebook with dates and times. Meanwhile, she was working on my dad. She’d cried to him about how hard she was trying with me. She said I was cold and distant and nothing she did was good enough.

He started getting frustrated with me. He’d make comments about my attitude and how I needed to be more appreciative. He said Lydia was doing her best and I should recognize that. I felt so alone.

My best friend Madison tried to help, but there wasn’t much she could do. She said I should tell another adult, but who would believe me? Lydia was too smart to leave evidence.

Then came the jewelry incident. Lydia had this expensive bracelet her mother gave her. She wore it all the time and made a big deal about how special it was.

One day, she came crying to my dad that it was missing. She said she left it on her dresser and now it was gone. They looked everywhere for it.

Then Lydia suggested checking my room. She said she hated to even think it, but maybe I took it by accident. My dad looked uncomfortable, but agreed to check. I knew right then what was happening.

I said they could search my room because I had nothing to hide. But my heart pounded as we walked upstairs. Lydia went straight to my desk drawer like she knew exactly where to look.

And there it was wrapped in one of my scarves. The bracelet I’d never touched. My dad’s face fell. He asked me how it got there. I said I had no idea and that Lydia must have put it there.

But even as I said it, I knew how it sounded. Lydia started crying harder. She said she couldn’t believe I would steal from her and then blame her for it. She said she thought we were making progress.

My dad sent me to my room while they talked. I could hear Lydia sobbing and saying she didn’t know what to do. She said maybe I needed therapy or something. When my dad finally came to my room, he looked exhausted.

He said he was disappointed in me. He said stealing was bad enough, but lying about it was worse. I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t listen.

He said I was grounded and took my phone. He said I needed to think about my actions and apologized to Lydia when I was ready. I spent the next week basically trapped. No phone and no car and no friends over.

Lydia would bring me meals with this fake concerned look. She’d ask if I was ready to talk about why I took her bracelet. I started planning. If she wanted to play games, then I’d play, too. I just needed to be smarter about it.

I apologized to her one morning when my dad was at work. I made myself cry and said I didn’t know why I took the bracelet. I said I was jealous of her relationship with my dad. She ate it up. She hugged me and said she understood. She said we could work through this together.

She even convinced my dad to give me my phone back. But I wasn’t done. I kept documenting everything and being extra careful. I also started recording our conversations on my phone when my dad wasn’t around.

One night, she came to my room to chat. She sat on my bed and asked how I was doing. I had my phone recording in my pocket. I played along and said I was trying to be better. I said I appreciated her patience with me.

Then I asked why she put shellfish in my food. She laughed and said I was being paranoid. She said she would never do that.

But then she leaned in close and whispered that I should be more careful with my accusations. I asked what she meant. She said my dad was already worried about my mental health. She said if I kept making wild claims, he might think I needed professional help.

Then she mentioned a treatment center her friend’s daughter went to. She said it really helped with her behavioral issues. She said it was in another state, but they had great results. I felt cold all over. She was threatening to have me sent away.

I asked if that’s what she wanted. She smiled and said she wanted us to be a happy family. She said that was easier when everyone knew their place. Then she patted my hand and left.

I listened to the recording later, but her whispered threats were too quiet to hear clearly. All you could make out was her saying she cared about me and wanted to help. I knew I needed something bigger, some kind of proof that my dad couldn’t ignore or explain away.

So, I started setting a trap. I told Lydia I felt bad about Christmas. I said I wanted to make it up to her by cooking a special dinner for her birthday, just the three of us.

She looked suspicious at first, but I kept pushing. I said I wanted to show her I could be part of the family. I even asked for her help planning the menu.

We spent a week preparing. I let her supervise everything and followed all her suggestions. I acted grateful for her guidance and thanked her constantly.

The night of her birthday, I cooked everything perfectly. I made her favorite dishes and even decorated the dining room. My dad was thrilled that we were getting along, but I had switched two of the serving dishes.

The one I gave Lydia had the ingredients she’d been putting in my food. Nothing dangerous, but enough to make her sick. We sat down to eat, and I watched her carefully.

She took a few bites and then paused. Her face changed and she put down her fork. My dad asked if everything was okay. She said the food tasted strange.

I asked what was wrong with it and took a bite from my own plate. I said it tasted fine to me. I asked if maybe she was feeling sick. She glared at me but couldn’t say anything without admitting what she’d done.

She excused herself and went to the bathroom. My dad and I could hear her getting sick. When she came back, she looked pale and angry. She said she needed to lie down. My dad offered to help, but she waved him off.

As she passed my chair, she grabbed my shoulder hard enough to hurt. Later that night, my dad knocked on my door. He said Lydia was really sick and he was worried. He asked if I was sure the food was okay.

I said I felt fine, and so did he. I suggested maybe she had a stomach bug. He nodded but looked troubled. The next morning, Lydia was still in bed.

My dad brought her tea and toast, but she couldn’t keep anything down. He wanted to take her to the doctor, but she refused. I heard them arguing about it.

She kept saying she was fine and just needed rest, but my dad said she looked terrible and needed help. Finally, she agreed to go.

While they were gone, I searched their room. I found her stash of shellfish powder hidden in a shoe box. I took pictures of everything.

I also found other things, printed emails about boarding schools and treatment centers, brochures for places that promised to fix troubled teens, all dated from the last few months.

When they got back from the doctor, Lydia went straight to bed. My dad said they ran tests but couldn’t find anything wrong. The doctor thought it might be food poisoning.

I suggested we throw out all the old spices and check expiration dates. I said we should be extra careful about food safety. My dad agreed and said that was a good idea.

While he was at work the next day, I helped Lydia clean out the kitchen. I made sure to find her hidden shellfish powder and acted shocked. I asked what it was doing there.

She snatched it from me and said it must be old. She threw it in the trash and told me not to mention it to my dad, but I’d already taken pictures. I had evidence now. I just needed the right moment to use it.

Lydia must have sensed something was changing because she got more desperate. She started telling my dad I was skipping school and hanging out with bad kids. I showed him my perfect attendance record, but he still looked worried.

Lydia suggested maybe I was forging documents. She said teens could do anything with computers these days. She also started intercepting my mail. I caught her going through college brochures that came for me.

When I confronted her, she said she was just trying to help me organize. Then she started deleting my voicemails. My friend Madison called to say she’d left me three messages I never got.

My dad had called too, but I never heard the phone ring. I realized she was isolating me, making it harder for me to communicate with anyone. Even my teacher started asking if everything was okay at home.

One day, I came home to find her in my room with my notebook, the one where I documented everything. She looked up when I walked in and smiled. She said she was concerned about my mental health.

She said the paranoid writings in my notebook proved I needed help. She already had pages photographed on her phone.

I lunged for the notebook, but she held it away. She said my dad needed to see what I’d been writing. She said it would help him understand why I needed treatment. I knew I was running out of time.

If she showed him that notebook out of context, he’d think I was losing it. All my documentation would look like paranoid rambling. So, I did something risky. I agreed with her.

I said she was right and I had been struggling. I said the stress of keeping secrets was culling me. I said I wanted to tell my dad everything. She looked suspicious but also intrigued.

She asked what secrets I meant. I said she knew what I was talking about. I told her I was tired of pretending. I said we should tell my dad the truth about everything about the shellfish and the bracelet and Christmas night.

Her face went hard. She said no one would believe me. She said I had no proof of anything. She said my dad would choose her story over mine.

I said maybe she was right, but I had to try. I said living like this was making me sick. I said I’d rather be sent away than keep playing these games.

She studied me for a long moment. Then she said we should talk about this over dinner. Just the two of us while my dad was at his work event. I agreed even though every instinct screamed danger. But I needed this to end one way or another.