I was 12 years old when my parents separated. I remember being the first in my small group of friends to have to deal with this reality. The announcement of the separation was both vague and specific, but I remember that the pain that afflicted me remained intact for many years. I couldn't believe that my precious core had just exploded before my eyes. Soon, Mom and Dad gave themselves into other hands, from whom I wanted nothing, and strangely, I can say that it was mutual. These people didn't want anything to do with me either. My little sister, who was barely five years old, already attracted more sympathy than I did.
I had just celebrated my 16th birthday when my mother finally found the man she was going to marry again. From our first meeting, I understood that it wouldn't be easy with him. I think I even feared him right away. Imposing, controlling, right about everything and nothing; yet, my mother only had eyes for him and very little for us, her children. Conflicts quickly broke out between him and me. Because I hadn't rinsed the wine glass properly or because I had left a pair of stockings lying around my room. He scared me more and more and used my vulnerability to destroy what little self-esteem I had. I remember the time when, on the way to school, he started insulting me because I smelled of perfume. He finally left me stranded before reaching my destination, like trash thrown on the side of the road. I felt less and less like living the life that was being forced upon me. Fortunately, even though my family was becoming increasingly dysfunctional, I could count on the support of an adult I trusted. Since I was little, I had developed a very strong relationship with my mother's sister. She had become my confidant, the one who gave me hope and swore that tomorrow, things would be better. I wanted to leave, to hope for something else. I sometimes went to vent in the school social worker's office. Without telling my mother, I was looking for a way out of this hell. Because yes, that was the impression I had. Living alongside this violent man, who had taken a dislike to me, was increasingly weakening the teenager I was trying to become.
I remember that rather hostile winter evening at the end of March. I was just getting out of the shower, I'd barely had time to put on my pajamas. Still in the bathroom, I heard him yelling words that I knew were about to turn everything upside down. The school had called my mother. She wanted to know why I'd skipped third period that day. I don't know why, but I didn't lie: I'd gone to see the social worker because I was unhappy and couldn't stand this life anymore. He then started yelling even louder and chasing me to get me out of our apartment. He walked me to the door: "You want to get the hell out of my house? Well, get the hell out of here!" he said. I think I managed to put on my slippers before leaving the apartment. Luckily, because a little snow had fallen that evening. In a matter of seconds, or at most a few minutes, I managed to slip away from home to call my aunt collect. I never set foot in that place again.
Three years passed before my mother called me back. Three years of trying to accept that she would no longer be there, of mourning her presence. Then, a message arrived on my voicemail. It said: "Please call me back." I was 19. The years that followed were ones of endless reconstruction. Several returns to square one were necessary before arriving at my destination. Several therapies to try to unravel the past, to avoid repeating the same mistakes my parents had made, and yet...
Life had given me the privilege of becoming a mother myself. To be able to give, twice rather than once, what I had so hoped to receive. Love, stability, joy, and kindness. I would strive to offer everything to my two children, Émile and Alice. They would never be able to blame me for neglecting them. After 14 years of married life, it too was about to explode. Destroying what I had so hoped to keep intact caused me immense pain. My family was also about to explode. I was about to inflict on my children suffering I knew all too well. I was so afraid of collateral damage. You mustn't bury your head in the sand: a separation, even if it goes smoothly, leaves scars.
Despite all the warnings, I long believed that I would be the parent spared the torments of adolescence. Alas, the storm was indeed about to hit my home, and my son would give me a hard time. It was while trying to keep my head above water, to avoid a shipwreck, that I began to seek help. Unfortunately, I quickly realized that few resources are available to us to deal with this chaos. In fact, while researching this pivotal period that is the famous teenage crisis, I found plenty of books on motherhood, postpartum, and women's mental health before, during, and after pregnancy, but nothing on these children who, once they reach adolescence, slip up and leave their parents alone in the storm.
To break the loneliness we face and to open the discussion on a subject that still seems taboo, I wanted to meet parents who often suffer in silence. As I myself have experienced… To my great surprise, they did not hesitate long before giving me their consent to share their stories with you. Probably because they felt that I understood them deep down, and that someone would finally take the time to listen to them without judging them.
Because being the parent of a teenager who is off the rails is an endless source of stress, fear, guilt, helplessness, and incomprehension. Because the parent whose teenager is off the rails too often feels like they have failed in their task, they feel ashamed, and they ask themselves: "What if I really was a bad parent?"
When My Teenager Goes Off the Rails – A Survival Guide for Helpless Parents
By Valérie Guibbaud
