Wake up. Take meds. Go to school. Attend therapy. Take meds. Go to bed.
This monotonous routine marked my average Tuesday afternoon as a child with a mother with Munchausen by Proxy. My daily life involved a constant series of medical rituals. I cycled through various therapists and doctors, receiving a stack of papers each time, each bearing a different mental health diagnosis. But little did I understand the gravity of my situation.
One day, I chose to dive into a documentary detailing the Dee Dee Blanchard murder. As the narrative unfolded, revealing Dee Dee’s daughter, Gypsy Rose, as a Munchausen by Proxy victim, I couldn’t help but see parallels to my own relationship with my mother.
I too was a victim of a mother with signs of Munchausen by Proxy.
My story doesn’t look like Gypsy Rose’s story in the slightest. I didn’t get a Habitat for Humanity house, and no one provided me with free trips to Disney World. In some ways, I even lived an average kid’s life. I had a group of friends, I participated in Girls Scouts and youth group, and I had a good relationship with my mother up until her passing.
However, my mom controlled my life as if I was a puppet and she was the puppet master.
The diagnoses started when I was 5 years old and too scared to speak in class or with certain family members. My mom decided to take me to see a therapist, and my therapist later diagnosed me with selective mutism. I continued to see this therapist weekly, and she helped me work through my speaking problems.
At one point, my therapist suggested that I could have ADHD. This one statement prompted my mom to read textbook after textbook on different mental health disorders. My mom fell into a diagnostic rabbit hole and even tried to convince my therapist that I had bipolar disorder at just 5 years old. Obviously, my therapist didn’t believe my mother. But my mom believed that she knew more than this medical professional and fired that therapist. She then convinced a doctor to give me mood stabilizers at the age of 6, even though I didn’t have a proper diagnosis. She then took me back to my former therapist to continue working on my selective mutism.
At first, no one really questioned why a 6-year-old took mood stabilizers and had a bipolar disorder diagnosis. One day, though, I was at a friend’s house, and the topic of my mental health came up. My friend’s mom, a licensed counselor, expressed concern about my diagnosis and was shocked that a doctor put me on such intense medications at a young age. Of course, my mom brushed the issue aside and told my friend’s mental health professional mom that I should be on my medications. Although my mom still let me hang out with this friend, she never held back her dislike of my friend’s mom. My mom only hated my friend’s mom because this woman expressed rightful concern about my so-called “treatment.”
After a few years of living with a bipolar disorder diagnosis, my mom started reading articles on Asperger’s Syndrome. She then switched me to a different therapist who diagnosed me with Asperger’s.
Shortly after, I was told that I would never be able to live on my own. It didn’t help that I couldn’t hold down a job. I eventually reached a point where my mom put me through interviews to qualify me for disability. However, the evaluators argued that I could live on my own and didn’t need disability payments. My mom screamed at me for “lying” and told me to speak “honestly” about my mental health conditions.
For years, my mom tried to influence the outcome of my various treatments. She learned everything that I said in my therapy sessions. And if the therapist refused to tell my mom what I said in their office (like any good therapist would), my mom forced me to tell her what I told my therapist. If I didn’t tell my mom what happened in my therapy sessions, she’d ground me.
Doctors diagnosed me with so many other conditions too, but in the end, I managed to untangle myself from the web of my mom’s influence. Over time, I learned that I can survive on my own, keep a job, and live in my own place. Now, I’m free from my mom’s puppet strings and can craft my narrative, one step at a time.
Photo by Riccardo Mion on Unsplash
