mom and grandma at it again

Mom and Grandma at it again

Today has been another day of noise and tension. My mom and grandmother argued again—like they do almost every day. It’s always about something that doesn’t matter in the long run. My brain can’t understand the point of it. I try to tune it out, but the shouting cuts through everything, like a sharp alarm I can’t silence. It makes my skin crawl and my stomach twist. I just want quiet. I want peace. But that’s rare in this house.

My grandmother is difficult. Honestly, she’s abusive—emotionally manipulative and cruel, especially to my mom. I see it. I hear it. I feel it in the heaviness of the air after every interaction. She talks down to us like we’re worthless, like our feelings and needs don’t matter. Sometimes I think she sees us as tools, not people. That’s hard to say. But it feels true.

Even though she can’t walk on her own or take care of herself, she still finds ways to control everything around her. She uses guilt like a weapon. My mom is constantly walking a tightrope between helping her and holding back the tears. But no matter how awful my grandmother is, my mom still shows up. She still brings her food. She still does the cleaning. She still listens—even when the words are meant to hurt.

Sometimes I want to scream, Why are we still helping her?
But I think my mom feels trapped—by duty, by history, maybe even by hope that something might change.

Being autistic makes this harder. I notice everything—the tone, the pacing, the energy in the room. I can’t filter it out like others might. The overstimulation and emotional confusion become a full-body shutdown. Sometimes I freeze. Sometimes I pace. I can’t always process what’s happening until hours later, when the house is quiet and I’m finally alone.

Still, I’m learning.
Learning how to set boundaries in small ways.
Learning that it’s okay to leave the room, to take care of myself, to name what’s happening.
I’m learning to validate my own reality, even if no one else does.
I’m learning that love doesn’t have to mean accepting abuse.

Today, I felt trapped between my sensory needs and my empathy for my mom.
I want to help her. I want to protect her.
But I also have to protect myself.

That’s not selfish. That’s survival.

I can’t change my grandmother.
But I can support my mom when she needs to vent.
And I can create quiet places for myself to decompress.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll take a walk.
Maybe I’ll write again.
Maybe I’ll just breathe.

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"Sometimes survival isn’t loud or heroic—it’s quietly choosing yourself, one small boundary at a time."

Thank you for reading. If this resonated with you, you’re not alone. 🕊️