So here I am. Almost thirty and only now coming to terms with what it was and what it still is.
I have read stories about parents physically abusing their children, some horrifying things, some of them on this very forum, but it has been very difficult for me to admit to myself that I have been victim of it. It comes with the territory, I suppose. When you have been raised in a culture that deifies parents, and convinces you from the get-go that they have every power over you, you rationalize everything. And then sometimes you start shedding those beliefs you took for granted, little by little, but there are still things you hang on to.
Like my beliefs that my father isn’t an abusive asshole. That he was just overwhelmed and that I’m sure he didn’t beat me anymore than he had to, and much less than others, right?
Well, I suppose he didn’t. I am still trying to figure this one out. I do love my father. Much less than I used to, a few years ago, mind you. I used to become tearful whenever I tried to imagine his or my mother’s death. But now I find that sadness is receding. Because I have stopped idealizing them. Because I am now so different from what I was, so different from them, they wouldn’t recognize me if they peered inside my head. Then again, I might be absolutely shattered when they pass away, who knows.
But back to the abuse. My father was raised by two abusive parents, in a violent environment, because that was the norm in the fifties, I imagine. He would tell us about how his father would beat the hell out of him for this and that “mischief” he committed. The way he talks about it is rather matter-of-factual. Sometimes it seems like he reveres his father BECAUSE of this. Though I might be mistaken.
My mother, on the other hand, was brought up in a slightly different milieu. Her father was a very stern figure, but I don’t believe he ever raised his hand against his daughters. Maybe he did occasionally beat his sons, but that was rare. My uncles never hit their children, so there must be a pattern there. My grandmother might have hit her a few times, but hey, 1950’s. And she had so many children and grandchildren to care for that I’m sure that the chances of abuse were greatly diminished.
I was beaten as a child. Not severely, and not that often, because whatever I did, surely I didn’t do it on purpose. It was their way of showing me right from wrong. A broken dish, dirty clothes, a fight with my sister, too much noise for the neighbours; those would gain me slaps on my legs, behind, arms. It got way worse in my pre-teen years, and all through my teenage years. I am a pigheaded person, and I guess somewhat aggressive in my pigheadedness. That never sat well with my father because however stubborn I am, he is a hundred times worse. And he is insecure, always seeing slights where none were meant. So really, most of the beating I took was for talking back. Sometimes, though, it was for being too noisy and not respecting him enough to give him silence. Other times it was for bad grades at school. Sometimes it was for stealing (stealing food or candy, by the way, not money or jewellery). There were also instances of public slaps. Those were by far the worst. Bad enough that I had to be humiliated, it had to be in front of other people.
Because this is what hurts the most. Not the blows, the humiliation. The anger of not being able to hit back. The helplessness, since he is my father. He can do it. Recently a memory that I had buried deep down inside came bubbling back to the surface and it was very difficult for me, so much that I started crying in the middle of a car ride, for seemingly no reason, and I had to hide my tears from my family. It was my birthday (probably my 9th) and we were going to throw a little party in our living room for a handful of classmates. I was so excited I insisted on decorating the room with balloons and garlands that I made myself. We were doing that, my sister and I, during lunch-break, and we started arguing over what should go where. Apparently it was a loud argument, because it woke my father from his nap, and he ran into the living room and started beating me, and tearing down the decorations. I was heart-broken, and was in tears all the way back to school, and well into the first lesson of the afternoon. When the teacher asked why I was crying, a classmate said “he father beat her”. And what did the teacher do? Shrugged and said “well then, it’s none of my business”, and went on with class. I sometimes struggle with understanding why such a behaviour is the norm, why a teacher wouldn’t even think about doing something, and then I remember that teachers in public school are very violent themselves. I don’t know about nowadays, but back in the 90’s (and even early 00’s, according to my younger sisters), corporal punishment was all the rage. I suppose that “helped” me rationalize my parents’ behaviour. The birthday party did happen after class, by the way. My mother redecorated the room, and after my friends left, I was so happy I forgot everything and went to apologize to my father for being such a bad girl. I suppose I got the usual “Don’t do it again” speech. I always get it.
I might want to point out that the beating wasn’t limited to hands. My father used to have a stick. Those things really sting, don’t they. It was a very thin one, but boy did it make me howl. Later he switched to something somewhat more effective. The belt. I think that was the worse. Though I’m not sure if the belting was actually worse than the short period of time right after the “mischief” when my father went to get his belt. That was terrifying, and that was when my mother, seeing that she couldn’t beg him out of it (she never could, anyway) would come to me and ask me to be quiet so that the neighbours won’t hear. That was pointless, though, because even if I was quiet, my father never was. He has a strong voice, my father. But yeah, the belt leaves rather ugly and painful marks on your body.
He didn’t always use “instruments”. Half of the time it was good old punching and slapping. I remember the appalling instances where he would ask me to remove my glasses so he wouldn’t break them if he hit me in the face (because if he did, well, he was the one paying for them). For some reason the beating mostly happened at night. And then I had all leisure to cry myself to sleep, either from rage, humiliation or self-pity. Usually after my mother’s visit to my room, cursing me for causing trouble. Because it is all my fault. Then in the morning, sadness would give way to shame, for some reason. And my mother would tell me not to try to talk to my father just then, because he was still too angry. So usually, a day later, sometimes more, I would go to him and hug him and say “samahni, baba”, and he would go on a long speech about how he is my father, how I should respect him, blablablah, and “don’t do it again.”
The saddest part is, I still remember the last time he hit me, and it wasn’t even that long ago. Must have been sometimes in 2009. He hit me twice on the arm and once on the back, with his hand (I got a mark) because, at dinner, I was in a bad mood, pissed off at him for some reason I can’t remember, and upon sensing that (he hates it when people are mad at him) he started trying to belittle me by bossing me around, giving me order after order, not letting me eat in peace. I complied, but with very little grace, and he flew into a rage because I wasn’t giving him due respect, and left the table and slammed the door. He always does that when angry, and then he comes back because his anger always goes crescendo. So he came back and hit me. I didn’t talk to him for a week, and then when my mother had done so much begging and that the atmosphere at home was rather crappy, I gave in and performed the usual asking for forgiveness thing. He then told me “Why do you make me beat you up at your age?”. Because it’s my fault, naturally. I was 26.
As for my mother, she provided her share of violence, though it was never to my father’s scale. She would do it out of exasperation and frustration, not sheer anger. And she didn’t hurt as much, except when she bit me. She often would bite me on the shoulder or the back, forcefully, for a few seconds. It was hard, in my later teenage years, not to hit her back when she did that, but I managed never to do anything more than pushing her away once or twice. She stopped much earlier than my father, too.
What worries me is, will I be able not to emulate them? This isn’t an unfounded worry because I remember that when my sisters were in their pre-teens, I would hit them quite often. When they annoyed me or refused to obey my orders, I would beat them until they cried, and then I would have won. I stopped when they got old enough to fight back. I am horribly ashamed of myself for that, and I’d like to think that I will not repeat the pattern with my own children, but how do I know that? Children can be quite infuriating, can’t they? How can I keep them from turning into spoiled brats without laying hands on them?
Now of course, my parents downplay their abuse of us (I wasn’t the only victim, though my middle sister was spared the worst of it because she was always my father’s favourite). I remember a few months ago, children’s upbringing came up in a conversation and my mother made a snide remark about how “in the west”, they won’t allow anyone to “chastise” unruly children, and now some people want to apply those rules here, as if they were something evil, like drugs or prostitution. She also mocked the effects that physical abuse has on children. I mean they only did it once every other month, right? And later she would ask me “why do you have self-esteem issues? You are so pretty now.” How do I make her understand that she and my father hurt me way more than they know? Than I even knew? Do I even want to do that?
I used to be the kind of person who would be “My parents hit me sometimes, and I turned out just fine. People who complain about it are just a bunch of crybabies”. But I guess I was just lying to myself, because I didn’t exactly turn out “just fine”. I’m a rather aggressive person, prone to fits of rage. My self-esteem is pretty damaged, and that can’t just be justified by the fact that I was butt-ugly as a teenager, can it? Also, surely my severe phobia of physical pain didn’t just appear by itself? I don’t want to blame ALL of my issues on my parents because that would be dishonest. But still. There is something very wrong with people’s acceptance of the fact that adults can physically harm helpless, defenceless children, just because they can, just because they have the “authority”, just because they had a bad day, just because of an imagine “slight” made to them by a headstrong 14 year-old…
Just wanted to write this down clearly for future reference. Thanks for reading
Topic: So yeah..