My mum blamed me for being raped – I cut her out of my life but I still send her gifts

No one else acknowledged her drinking and I hated them for it (Picture: Getty Images)

‘I’m not the one who got so drunk I got myself assaulted!’ my mother roared, a wine glass sloshing in her hand. 

Her eyes flashing with fury that I had dared to confront her about her drinking, she raised her hand and, instinctively, I cowered, preparing myself for the blow.  

We had fallen out many times over the years about her drinking, but this was the final straw. The one that made me cut contact with her completely.  

It has broken my heart but it was something I needed to do.  

Growing up, my mum would chauffeur me and my friends around, telling us dirty jokes and letting us drink when they all came round to our house. ‘It’s better you drink under my roof,’ she’d say, topping up our glasses.  

I was very proud that mine was the ‘cool’ mum – but my friends weren’t there to see her at the end of the night.  

She’d stumble into doors, and one time, I heard an enormous crash from Mum’s room. She liked to read in bed with her dinner on her lap, and when I rushed in, her full plate had toppled all over the floor. Mum was just lying there in a daze, too drunk to react.  

Another time, when I was in my early 20s, I returned home to find bloodied footprints down the corridor. My parents’ divorce was imminent and the first place my mind went was, ‘What’s Dad done to her?’ 

I found her lying in bed in a pool of her own blood. Time seemed to stand still as I shook her until she stirred, smiling lopsidedly before her pupils rolled to the back of her head and she passed out again. 

Dad was fast asleep in his own room. I didn’t wake him – just called my brother, hysterical. He came over and bandaged the gash on her leg. 

The next morning, my mum chuckled as she mopped up blood.

These experiences made me feel helpless – like I’d seen behind the mask, and instead of a parent there was a child I needed to look after. 

No one else acknowledged her drinking and I hated them for it. If I ever did say anything, I was berated for causing drama. I didn’t understand why no one saw what I saw.  

Last year, she found a carrier bag full of vomit in the garden and believed me to be the culprit. It was actually her, she just couldn’t remember.  

She was always valiant while defending herself.  

I wrote a long message outlining why I can’t have her in my life anymore, and then I blocked her

Who was I to dictate what she did under her roof, she’d argue. Wasn’t I the one who binge drank at the weekend? Hadn’t I called in sick to work that one time because I was hungover? Hadn’t I accepted a glass of wine just yesterday?  

There came a point during the pandemic when I told her I could no longer visit.  

‘I must be a horrible person if only alcohol can dull the ache of being around me,’ I told her. 

I was elated when, in response, she poured every bottle of wine down the sink. 

Yet, it didn’t take long before I noticed the slur return to her speech. Still though, I didn’t want to believe she was drinking again, telling myself that the empty wine bottles that slowly started to appear in a corner of the laundry had been there all along. 

Soon she dropped the act altogether and offered me a glass of wine. ‘I thought you’d stopped,’ I asked shakily. 

‘I did! Last time!’ was her response.  

It was therapy during lockdown that made me acknowledge that my mum was an alcoholic.  

I feel traitorous just using that word: alcoholic. She holds down a job, I’d argue to myself, and she never drinks until 5pm ‒ on the dot. 

But when she blamed my drinking for my assault, that truly shattered my heart. And made me realise I couldn’t carry on with this relationship. 

I wrote a long message outlining why I can’t have her in my life anymore, and then I blocked her.  

Mum has had health scares of late and I feel ashamed for putting this boundary of no contact in place. I’ve convinced myself that a God I don’t believe in will take her away to punish me.  

Sometimes I send money to her bank account or anonymous gifts through the post because I can’t bring myself to tell her I love her. I can’t get over the fact she hasn’t asked for forgiveness. On Mother’s Day, I sent flowers addressed from our family dog, who I now look after.  

My mum has tried to contact me numerous times over the months but I don’t acknowledge her messages. 

Having no contact has been both a relief and devastating. The rage in her eyes when she raised her hand to me made me feel like I had no options left.  

I still find it triggering when people drink excessively around me ‒ I can’t untangle the booze from the belief that I’m not enough. Logically I know this isn’t true but my emotional mind struggles to overcome this belief. 

At this point, only a sincere apology would make me consider a reconciliation, but the wound is so deep I don’t think the relationship will ever be what it was. She lashed out and hit me where I’m most vulnerable and I can’t imagine trusting her again.  

They say drunken minds speak sober hearts, and if that’s what’s in her heart, then I don’t want her in my life.  

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On Mother’s Day, I sent flowers addressed from our family dog, who I now look after.