“I was beaten as a child, and it was okay, I grew up okay.”
Sound familiar? Maybe you say it yourself? Then this post is for you.
My father beat me my entire childhood. He wasn’t a violent drunk or an antisocial individual. He simply thought it was the right thing to do.
Only when I was fifteen did I muster the courage to ask, “Why?”
Because it’s hard for me to imagine a child doing something that would warrant someone many times bigger and stronger than him beating them.
My father said, “Killing you isn’t enough. I’m just teaching you.”
That day, I got a C in physics. For the term. Three Bs. One C, and the rest were A’s.
My father said, “Bring your belt.”
I used to obediently bring that damn belt, but that day I said, “NO. Do they beat you at work for your mistakes or lack of diligence?”
That day, my father beat me with particular zeal. To the point of blackness. “So she knows how to open her mouth to her father.”
I was always afraid of him. Just afraid. I didn’t love him. But, of course, I acted like “a loving daughter.” How could it be otherwise? After all, his favorite saying was, “I should start spanking you on Saturdays. To keep you from going bad.”
And until I was twenty-four, while I lived in his house (well, you know that phrase, “As long as you live in my house!!!!”), I was afraid to come home on Saturdays. From school. From work. I believed it. I was sure that sooner or later he would start beating me.
Why am I remembering this now? At forty-five?
I’m a grown woman. I have a loving husband and two children. I have a good job. I’ve been helping my parents financially for a long time.
And a month ago, my father had a stroke. My mother began to actively work. “Come help me, we’ll clean out the room. You need a place to live. You’re not going to drive halfway across town every day.”
Yes. They decided I’d abandon my family and move back in with my parents to wash my ass and spoon-feed my partially paralyzed father. My mother, after all, “isn’t young and can’t carry him.”
I told her I’d pay for his retirement home. That’s all I can do for him.
We argued for two weeks. Or rather, she called and yelled. And I listened. I asked if she had anything meaningful to say to me. No? And then I hung up.
The phrases “How will you look your father in the eye, ungrateful woman?” and “I’d love to see how your kids send you to the poorhouse!” were especially common. As I write this, my eyebrow started twitching. The nervous tic has returned.
“You were fed, watered, and educated!!!!!”
I grew up in the 1990s. Our food came from the garden, where I toiled like crazy throughout my childhood, just like the adults. The treatment for the aftereffects (a bad spine and other “female” issues) still costs me a considerable amount.
I studied on a state scholarship.
What did my parents give me? An existential terror of men. I love my husband. And my husband is a kind and gentle man. And he doesn’t know that I flinch every time he raises his voice. Not at me. Just like that. He dropped something and cursed. And I jump up, expecting to be beaten. I scan the room, and thoughts flash through my mind: “What did I do wrong? Did I hang the toilet paper upside down? Didn’t sweep the floor? Did I leave a dirty spoon on the table? Bread crumbs?”
It lasts a few seconds. It’s just a reflex. But it’s been with me forever. And neither psychotherapy nor pills help.
Today, the nursing home staff told me they picked up my father from the hospital. He was transported by a commercial ambulance. My presence wasn’t required.
I set up automatic payments in my bank app.
My mother called. She yelled something like, “Are you going to turn me in too? Just ask me for something! I wish I’d help you with the kids at least once more!!”
I laugh nervously. They didn’t really help me. Did they demand grandchildren? Yes. So they could be like everyone else.
Did they babysit them? No. Sometimes they took them in when the kids were already in school and didn’t need supervision.
What do I feel? Shame. I feel like a bad daughter. And shame that a grown woman, well-established in life, is still afraid of her father, even though he wouldn’t even hit her. He couldn’t even lift a spoon. But I’m terrified by the unrealistic thought that one day he’ll come to me.
And the pain. Because I love my dad so much. You know, the abstract dad. The one from the picture. The one who tosses you into the air. Leads you by the hand to school. Blows on your scraped knees. Says, “Don’t cry, we’ll sort it out,” when you come to him with your problems.
The dad I never had.
If you’re raising a child now and are guided by the principle, “I was beaten and it’s okay, I grew up normal”
No. Not normal. You grew up either as big a monster as my father. Or as broken a loser as I was.
