The Talk in A Childhood Lost

Just want to share my experience as a child growing up in an incredibly unconscious/projecting and narcissistic household.
My ‘talk’ consisted of my mom confronting me after having read a story that I had written. The story was quite explicit- but it was just that; a narration that I made up. Writing was a creative outlet for me, one of the only ones that I had. Since I was little, I liked to draw, paint, and color, but both of my parents harshly criticized my work and constantly put it down. Writing was just an outlet much more difficult for them to criticize; they’d have to find it, read through it and think about it rather than glancing through my sketchbook. This dissuaded my dad, who often asked what I was writing but never bothered to read it. However, my mom would dig through my things and read some of the stuff I wrote whether I wanted her to or not.
I was plagued with a belief that everything I did was inferior; my classmates and even teachers would comment about how good my work was, but I hated their praise almost more than my parents’ criticism. If my work was complimented, I’d erase it, tear it up, crumple it carelessly and throw it away, to the horror of anyone around. I would rather hide what I was doing so no would would see it. I suppose I didn’t care if anyone saw it so much as I never wanted to know their reaction to it. But I guess that is a story for another time.
Anywho, my mom confronted me and asked who had written the story. I tried lying but that was silly because it almost didn’t matter who had actually written it; it was in my possession. Her face was stony and grotesque, like a gargoyle. She asked me questions but none of it mattered. She had already reached her conclusion. Her mind was made up and there was no explanation possible.
There never was.
“Is this what you want?” she asked me harshly, gesturing at the words on the page. “If this is what you want, we’ll put you on The Pill.” her voice dripped with contempt. Barely withheld disgust and horror crawled over her, seemed to be projected at me, infecting me.
I tried not to look at her, but she always insisted that I do. “Look at me when I’m talking!” she would bark suddenly, as if my downcast eyes were a personal affront. Even as she verbally assaulted me.
I felt horrified, terrified, confused, and surprised at what she was saying. What does that mean? I wondered in silence. I had no idea what The Pill was. I didn’t even connect the dots until later what she meant by “Is this what you want?”. Somehow I thought that the actual possession of the story or having written it was what she was mad about. The content, though, explicit though it was, was unthinkable to me in reality.
Probably, that’s why I wrote it.

I have heard it said that artists, writers and creative people are so adept at delivering a living, feeling, meaningful experience through their art because they’ve never experienced it. Whatever it is… their conveyance of that thing through art is their version of their conception of it. Be it Love, Violence, Hatred, Nature… whatever.
Because a person experiencing love has no need or want or desire to express it in a different form; it is already expressed in reality. Whatever we bring to conscious fruition loses power over our unconscious. And whatever we let lie in our unconscious has the power to express itself in our lives.
The basic premise of psychology, I suppose.

From that one interaction, intense as it was, my mom managed to instill a shame in me so deep that it continued through layers and layers and layers of my personality.
Although to attribute that shame to one instance is a bit precocious. It was years of cultivation to produce a shame so pervasive.